Snippets from Slytherin
by Silver Sailor Ganymede
Summary: 107 drabbles focusing on various Slytherins.
1. Laughed

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

_**(For the 'Times' challenge by sick-atxxheart. HPFC forum on fanfiction. net)**_

Snippets from Slytherin  
By Silver Sailor Ganymede

I. Laughed

Blaise Zabini was laughing again. He was just sitting by the fire in the common room, laughing as though he had been possessed by a banshee. Draco found the sound more than a little disturbing, not least because it was so very undignified. Slytherins were supposed to be calm and collected, not ridiculously hysterical.

"Is there something the matter, Zabini?" Draco asked. Blaise simply looked up at him and grinned. _Grinned_. Slytherins were not supposed to laugh like idiots, and they most certainly were not supposed to _grin_. Evidently there was something extremely wrong with Zabini. Draco was beginning to think the boy should have been sorted into Gryffindor, not Slytherin.

"It's this," Blaise replied, holding up a comic book. The style of the drawings was rather odd, but most strangely of all nothing was moving.

"Your comic book is obviously broken," said Draco, "the pictures aren't moving."

Blaise frowned and Draco suddenly got the impression that he had said something rather stupid. "Of course they're not moving. It's a muggle comic book."

_A muggle comic book_. Draco glared at Blaise in disgust then quickly averted his gaze as though he had seen his friend reading something obscene. First he _laughed_, then he _grinned_, and then he told everyone, rather loudly, that he was reading _muggle comic books_. There was something very, very wrong indeed with Blaise Zabini.


	2. Cried

II. Cried

Millicent wasn't sure how to deal with this. She had come into the dormitory, hoping to get an early night, and then she had found this – Daphne Greengrass sitting on her bed, crying her eyes out.

Daphne looked up upon realising that Millicent was there and turned scarlet. She had obviously gone into the dormitory in the hopes that no one would see her break down, and Millicent had inadvertently disturbed her peace.

"What do you want, Bulstrode?" Daphne snapped, trying to look menacing. The effect was rather spoiled by the fact that she was still sobbing.

"I was just going to bed," Millicent muttered out awkwardly. "I'll leave you to it." She looked concernedly at Daphne. "Are you homesick?"

Daphne simply shrugged. She wasn't going to admit to being upset about anything even though she obviously was. To admit being upset by something was tantamount to suicide in Slytherin, something that Millicent didn't care for at all.

"We'll get used to it," Millicent said, shrugging. Daphne glowered at her again and Millicent rushed to draw the curtains around her bed before she said anything else stupid.


	3. Dreamed

III. Dreamed

"I wish he'd just shut up," Draco growled, turning over in bed and covering his head with a pillow.

"You shouldn't do that; you'll suffocate," Theodore's voice floated over to Draco's ears from across the room. Draco hastily removed the pillow from his head and glared at Theodore.

"So how do you propose I drown out Zabini's talking?" Draco snapped. "He's been talking in his sleep all night!"

"Yes. It appears he's dreaming about a kelpie eating his trousers," Theodore replied nonchalantly. Draco wondered how he could appear so utterly unconcerned.

"It's three in the morning and he still hasn't shut up," Draco said, wishing for once that he were as heavy a sleeper as Vince and Greg. "And how come you're not tired?"

"It's not four yet," Theodore replied. "I generally can't get to sleep until four, no matter how hard I try."

Draco shook his head in disbelief. It was just his luck, wasn't it, to have to share a dormitory with Crabbe and Goyle, who snored: Zabini, who talked: and Nott, who was a chronic insomniac and didn't appear to sleep at all.

"Well unlike you I'm not a vampire. I actually need sleep," Draco said tersely. "So how do you propose we get him to shut up?"

Theodore pulled out his wand, pointed it in the direction of Blaise's curtains, and muttered, "Silencio."

Draco stared at him, wide-eyed. "How did you do that?"

"Basic silencing charm," Theodore replied. "Wasn't that obvious?"

Draco glared at Theodore, rolled over and stuck his head under his pillow again. He didn't know whether getting a decent night's sleep had quite been worth getting talked to like that.


	4. Kissed

IV. Kissed

Daphne honestly didn't know what to make of the situation, she really didn't. She had simply been sitting quietly in the common room, attempting to write her Transfiguration essay, when Theodore Nott had come up to her and kissed her on the lips. It came as a shock for two reasons – firstly because it was Theodore, who never so much as spoke to anyone and appeared to be very shy, and secondly because _he had just kissed her_. In front of the entire common room. Without any warning whatsoever.

Daphne's confusion resolved itself when Theodore sat back down very quickly and Blaise started to laugh so hard that there were tears streaming down his face. Blaise sniggering himself into hysterics was not an unusual event, but he was laughing at her. Laughing at her, Daphne Greengrass, in front of the entire common room. Evidently Theodore had just done that for a dare.

It took Daphne a moment to decide which one of them to hex first, but one look at Blaise's smirk was enough to make up her mind. Theodore was lucky that time – Blaise, however, ended up in the hospital wing with radishes growing out of his ears.

Blaise wasn't going to be pranking Daphne in a hurry again, that much was certain.


	5. Hugged

V. Hugged

"Come on, Pansy. What's wrong?" Daphne asked, sitting down on Pansy's bed next to her. Pansy was curled up in a ball, hugging her knees to her chest, a very dark look on her face.

"I don't want to talk about it," Pansy mumbled into her knees, not looking up at Daphne.

Daphne sighed. "Alright. Just wallow in your misery then." She paused for a moment. "It's Draco, isn't it?"

Pansy looked up at her. "How did you know?"

"Because he's a git," Daphne replied, rolling her eyes.

"He is not!" Pansy shouted.

"He is if he continually upsets you like this," Daphne snapped. "I don't see why you don't just get rid of him."

"Because I love him!" Pansy shrieked, jumping to her feet. "Just because you don't like him does not mean I have to break up with him."

She stormed out of the room, leaving an exasperated Daphne behind her.

"I'm only trying to help you, Pansy you idiot."


	6. Killed

VI. Killed

"I am going to kill you, Zabini!" Millicent's scream broke the silence in the common room.

Blaise started, almost falling off the sofa where he was sitting next to Theodore, then looked up at Millicent with the most innocent expression he could muster – which of course only served to make him look even guiltier than ever.

"I have no idea what you mean, Millie."

"You know bloody well what I mean," Millicent snarled. "My cat is covered in orange ink, and I have it on good authority that you're the one who did it!"

"I didn't mean for the inkpot to hit your cat," Blaise said, shrugging. "It's not my fault."

"I'm still not happy with you."

"Why ever not?" Blaise asked. "Would you rather I'd covered it in pink ink instead? A nice girly colour for you?"

Theodore only just managed to drag Blaise out of the room before Millicent tried to curse him.


	7. Screamed

VII. Screamed

Blaise was slowly having to revise his previous opinion that Hufflepuffs were nothing more than a load of failures who had no clue about anything at all. At least the Hufflepuff sixth year that he currently had pinned to a tree by the greenhouses _certainly _seemed to know exactly what he was meant to do, and Blaise was rather enjoying himself. He smiled into the kiss, content in the knowledge that nothing could disturb him…

"Zabini, get the bloody hell away from my brother!"

And suddenly there was the disturbance, this time in the form of a screaming, thoroughly annoyed looking Tracey Davis. Oh dear.

Tracey shot a piercing scowl at Blaise, but quickly turned her attention to the Hufflepuff, who Blaise now knew was her older brother.

"And as for you, you're incorrigible! Zabini's in my year, which means he's underage, so don't get any more idiotic ideas. And besides that, since when have you even liked boys?"

Tracey's hissing reminded Blaise a little too much of Millicent's cat just before it was going to try and scratch someone's eyes out. He had no doubt that Tracey would be scratching someone's eyes out soon, too, as the annoyed sneer on her face intensified as her brother tried to mumble his way out of the situation. No wonder he was a Hufflepuff.

"What are you still doing here?" Tracey growled at Blaise. Yes, she had definitely been possessed by Millicent's cat – otherwise why would she be getting so angry? It was a massive overreaction if ever he'd seen one. Then Tracey's hand was on her wand, which Blaise took as his cue to leave, fast.

Maybe he'd be able to convince Theodore to stop Tracey hexing him later. Well, hopefully, but Tracey was just unreasonable: he hadn't even done anything wrong!


	8. Bled

VIII. Bled

Draco winced as Pansy threw her arms around him and started crying. He had only just woken up and the world was still not clear, so the last thing he wanted was a wailing, Pansy-shaped limpet clinging to his neck.

"Oh Draco," she shrieked. "I was so worried! We all thought you weren't going to wake up! I… I…"

"Alright, Parkinson, that's enough," Marcus Flint grunted, dragging the howling girl off Draco's neck. "Bole, Derrick, get her out of here. We can't have our Seeker getting any more injured."

The two Beaters grabbed Pansy and dragged her away from Draco's bedside, still looking as though she had just seen him come back from the dead.

"What was wrong with her?" Draco asked. His head hurt; this was horrible.

"You got hit by a Bludger," Flint explained. "Think it broke your nose; there was blood everywhere. So of course your little girlfriend there completely overreacted and thought you'd died." He rolled his eyes. "No place for women in Quidditch, see. They overreact and start screaming at nothing. Shouldn't even let them watch the game, let alone play."

"Shut up, Flint; she's not my girlfriend," Draco groaned, leaning back on his pillows and hoping that both his captain and his headache would leave him in peace soon.


	9. Giggled

IX. Giggled

Tracey wished that she didn't have to share a dormitory. She had never had to share a room before, being the only girl among her rowdy, annoying older brothers, and being stuck in a room with four other girls was not the most pleasant experience.

Millicent Bulstrode was ok, as she was rather boyish anyway, and her fondness for the Tutshell Tornadoes rather reminded Tracey of her oldest brother. Millicent she could put up with. Millicent she could almost say she liked. And Millicent had a cat – nobody bad ever had a pet cat.

Daphne Greengrass, Lilith Moon and Pansy Parkinson, however, were another story entirely. They were all annoying – so annoying, in fact, that sometimes Tracey found herself wondering whether they were all really the same person, just with different coloured hair. She had a theory that if they all dyed their hair blonde like Daphne's (or ginger like Lilith's or black like Pansy's) they'd all look exactly the same. The clone-like element wasn't the worst thing though; what Tracey couldn't stand was the giggling. The three girls would sit up all night, reading Witch Weekly and giggling, as though they were having a sleepover to which she and Millicent weren't invited.

Sometimes Tracey honestly considered moving into the boys' dormitory instead. Draco might have been a prat, Vincent and Gregory idiots, Blaise a ponce and Theodore just generally cold, but she could put up with that. At least the boys didn't giggle.


	10. Slapped

X. Slapped

She had just slapped him. Daphne Greengrass, a pureblood, had just slapped him as though she were a common muggle. Vincent wasn't as stupid as everyone said he was, but he was still confused as to what exactly had just happened.

"Did you just hit me?" he asked, gently touching the side of his face and feeling that it was already starting to swell.

"Yes I did," Daphne snapped back. "You stay the bloody hell away from my sister, Vincent Crabbe. You hear me?"

"That snivelling ickle firstie?" Vincent said, frowning. "But all firsties are fair game, you know that."

"You. Stay. Away. From. My. Sister," Daphne growled out, fixing Vincent with such a piercing stare that he felt his blood run cold.

"Why don't you hex me like a proper witch if you're that angry then?" Vincent said then almost instantly regretted it as Daphne began to laugh.

"Why should I waste magic on a borderline squib like you?" she cried. "But if you ever go anywhere near my sister again, you'll be in the hospital wing for the rest of the year. Do you understand me, or are you too thick to comprehend even that?"

Vincent gritted his teeth. He was not stupid! But he didn't open his mouth. He had already learnt his lesson; Daphne Greengrass was not someone you wanted to cross.


	11. Attacked

XI. Attacked

"Queenie, you have got to help me. I'm under attack from rabid women!"

Blaise's use of her much despised nickname was almost enough to put Daphne off helping Blaise altogether, but the distressed look in his eyes was enough to make her give in.

"My middle name may be Quirita, but that gives you no right to call me Queenie," Daphne snapped. Blaise's panicked look intensified. "Alright, Blaise. Come on – we'll go into the dorms and talk." She grabbed hold of his arm and dragged him into the girls' dormitory, where he crumpled onto her bed in a dishevelled heap.

"I fucking hate this Tournament!" Blaise yowled as Daphne locked the door.

"What is it about the Triwizard Tournament that's made you so upset?" Daphne asked. Then she remembered his comment about rabid women and figured out exactly what it was. "It's the Yule Ball, isn't it?"

"Exactly," Blaise sighed. "Half the girls in the school seem to want to go with me, and they don't understand that I'm just not interested."

"You know I can't go with you," Daphne sighed. "I've already agreed to go with my cousin, remember?"

"Yes, yes, he's your mother's brother's son, you've told me before," Blaise muttered. "At least you know you're not going to get hassled all night with your cousin protecting you."

"Why don't you just tell Theodore to go with you?" Daphne suggested. "He'll be loitering in the library otherwise – and it'll keep the annoying girls away from you."

"Theo won't listen," Blaise said sulkily. "He never does."

"That's why I said you should _tell_ him rather than ask him," Daphne replied.

Blaise brightened up immediately. "I love you, Queenie darling, you know that?"

Daphne scowled at him. "You've got five seconds to get out of here before I hex you."

"I didn't mean to call you Queenie, Queenie… erm, I'm mean Daphne. Oh bugger."

He fled the room, Daphne's hex missing him by centimetres.


	12. Battled

XII. Battled

Severus Snape was at war with himself. Lily had gone to Gryffindor and he didn't want to lose her – but did he really want to end up in the same house as Black and Potter, who had already proved themselves to idiots of the first rank? Still, he decided, saving his friendship with Lily would be worth having to put up with those fools.

"Please Gryffindor, please Gryffindor," Severus thought as soon as the Sorting Hat was placed on his head.

"You want to go to Gryffindor?" a disbelieving voice said in his ear, and Severus realised with a start that the Hat was talking to him. "But you are not a Gryffindor. You're not a coward, goodness no, but you're not Gryffindor material, that much is certain."

"But Lily…"

"Such loyalty seems more befitting of a Hufflepuff," said the Sorting Hat. "But you're only loyal to that girl and to your mother. How very peculiar."

Severus suddenly realised that the Hat was reading his thoughts, looking into the deepest parts of his mind, and he didn't like it at all. He tried to concentrate on blocking off all the memories and thoughts and feelings he didn't want anyone else to see, but was met with only laughter in response.

"Gryffindor? Goodness no, my dear boy. Such suspicion in one so young, such ambition; such a thirst to prove that you are nothing like your muggle father – these traits are befitting of one house and one house only. You will do well in Slytherin!"

The Hat shouted the last words for the whole hall to hear. Lily looked at him, obviously disappointed, James Potter sent him a smug smirk, and Severus felt his heart drop through his stomach as he walked slowly over to the Slytherin table.

Severus Snape was at war with himself, but in the end the result of the battle was decided for him, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.


	13. Belonged

XIII. Belonged

Narcissa had always been the odd one out. Her sisters and her cousins all had dark hair, dark grey eyes and were rather tall, but Narcissa was none of those things. She was blonde enough to have been mistaken for a half-Veela in the past, her eyes were blue rather than grey, and she had always been very petite.

"Like a china doll," Bellatrix had taunted her. "A lovely, breakable china doll."

If anyone knew how to make her cry, it was her eldest sister, Bellatrix, who was sharp and severe and whose smile never reached her eyes: Bellatrix, who was intimidating and loud and typically Black in every single way, Narcissa's opposite.

But if Bellatrix made her cry, Andromeda made her laugh. Andromeda was almost as dark as Bellatrix, but somehow she never seemed quite so harsh. That was probably because Andromeda's smile was actually real and her eyes always sparkled with barely-concealed mirth. Bellatrix only laughed when people were hurting; Andromeda laughed when people were happy.

Narcissa was always the odd one out of her sisters, being blonde and breakable rather than beautiful and Black, and sometimes she wondered whether she would ever find a place where people would give her the respect she deserved.

When Narcissa was sorted into Slytherin, all these worries melted away. She was beautiful and powerful and everyone who knew what was good for them deferred to her immediately. She was no longer baby Cissy, the oddity of her family: she was Narcissa Black, and she was finally where she belonged.


	14. Blushed

XIV. Blushed

He was staring at her again. Ted Tonks was staring over at her from the Hufflepuff table, a lively twinkle in his eyes and a cheeky grin on his face. Andromeda looked him directly in the eye and felt herself blush, her cheeks so hot they started to sting.

She turned back round quickly and tried to hide behind her hair, but did not manage to do so before Bellatrix caught sight of her.

"Disgusting, isn't it," Bellatrix snarled in horror, "that they think they can so much as look at us. Filthy mudblood should have his eyes out for daring to stare at a daughter of the House of Black."

Andromeda wondered what her sister would do if she knew that Ted had done far more than simply stare at her. It didn't bear thinking about.


	15. Broke

XV. Broke

"Zabini, what have you done to my hand mirror?" Draco all but shrieked. His precious mirror had gone missing a few days previously – and now he had found it in Blaise's grimy little paws, broken to pieces.

"I didn't do anything," Blaise replied. "Gravity broke your mirror."

"There's no one at Hogwarts called 'Gravity', you liar," Draco snapped. "That's too peculiar a name even for a mudblood."

Blaise snickered. "Gravity's not a person, Malfoy, you utter fool."

Draco felt himself reddening. How dare Zabini call him a fool! Didn't he know to whom he was speaking?

"What I'd like to know is what you were doing with my mirror in the first place," Draco snarled.

Blaise shrugged. "I thought you could do with spending some time doing something other than staring at yourself."

Draco wanted to hex the other boy, but in the end he decided it wasn't worth it. Instead he snatched back the mirror, wondering how much he would have to bribe someone to fix it for him. That mirror was a fifteenth century family heirloom; his mother would murder him if she found out it was broken, and Draco did not want to die just because Blaise Zabini was an idiot.


	16. Was Confused

XVI. Was Confused

Narcissa Black was confused – more confused about anything, in fact, than she had ever been in her life. One day she had been the princess of Slytherin, the next she was a social pariah and all through no fault of her own.

It wouldn't have hurt so much had any of it been her own fault. Then again, she would never have done something so stupid as to put herself in such a position. She knew the value of power and saving face and appearing respectable in order to keep the status quo unchanged. Not like Andromeda. Andromeda was an idiot.

She didn't understand it. All three of them had been given exactly the same upbringing (first at home and then in Slytherin), yet how had they turned out so differently? Bellatrix was going mad, defying her husband in ways that no good pureblood wife ought even to have considered, and Andromeda, well, Andromeda was a disgrace. Andromeda was a fool. Andromeda was the cause of all Narcissa's problems at that moment in times.

They had all always known that muggles were filthy creatures. Bellatrix, for all her instability, at least knew that – or at least she seemed to, given the obsequious manner in which she behaved around that self-styled 'lord' of hers. Not Andromeda though: Andromeda had been brainwashed. Andromeda had left her whole world behind for the sake of a filthy mudblood.

Narcissa Black was confused in a way that she had never been before. Whatever had caused her sister, her _sister_, to become a bloodtraitor? It made no sense at all.

Narcissa only hoped that she would never end up like Andromeda. Better mad like Bellatrix than ruined like Andromeda - yet she still could not bring herself to hate her.


	17. Communicated

XVII. Communicated

Theodore thought that Draco really needed to learn the subtle art of communication. Manipulation he had perfected to an extent that even Theodore had to rather admire him for it, but actual communication seemed beyond his capabilities. Regardless of what was going on, Draco just had to be the centre of attention, and it honestly got more than a little tiresome after a while.

Like now, for instance. They were in the grounds of the Malfoy mansion, sprawled out lazily in the shade of a large oak tree, and Theodore was trying to relax and enjoy the weather. Draco seemed utterly unaware of this, and was doing his best to rant on about the Quidditch world cup finals. He, of course, went to see the match and sat in the top box with the minister – as usual Draco's father would accept only the absolute best for his son. It wasn't so bad at first, but Draco was repeating himself for what must have been the fifth time, and the soporific whine of Draco's voice combined with the warm weather was almost enough to send Theodore to sleep.

Draco was wearing pure white robes because of the heat. The glass of pink lemonade he was clutching in his hand was the only thing about him that had any colour at all. That, combined with the way the sunlight was shining off his silvery hair, was almost enough to make Theodore think he was a ghost. Well, at least Draco _would _be a ghost if he carried on whinging about the bloody Quidditch for much longer.

Theodore did not go to the Quidditch world cup finals. He had never been able to understand the point of Quidditch: it was one of the few things, if not the only thing that he and his father agreed on. Quidditch was dire in all its forms, and that was why Theodore found himself paying more attention to the bubbles in Draco's lemonade than to what the boy was actually saying - at least until he heard the words 'Death Eaters' and decided that Draco might have begun talking about something that was actually worth his attention.

"What have Death Eaters got to do with anything?" Theodore drawled. Draco glared at him.

"I thought you weren't listening, Nott." There was a definite sulky edge to Draco's tone now. "And if you'd actually been paying attention you would have realised that there was Death Eater activity at the Quidditch World Cup. Have you not read the Daily Prophet?"

Theodore thought that the Daily Prophet was a load of complete rubbish, and had no problems sharing this opinion with Draco.

"Well, I happen to know why they did it," Draco replied smugly. "Some of the old boys weren't happy with the fact that there were muggles anywhere near the game – even if they didn't know what was going on. I say muggles never do know what's happening around them, ignorant, filthy animals, so there's no difference between a muggle with a spell on him and a normal one. Except for when they're being played with, of course. I only wish father and the others had let me join it. It would have been such good fun to make the filthy animals scream."

Theodore could hardly resist the urge to roll his eyes. Trust Lucius Malfoy to muggle bait in such a public place. He would have bet his last galleon that Walden MacNair was involved as well, and Crabbe and Goyle's fathers. It was just the sort of unsophisticated activity that would please bloodthirsty men like them.

"And just how much firewhisky did they have to drink beforehand?" Theodore couldn't help but ask.

"And do you know what else I know?" Draco said, ignoring Theodore's comment. There was a smug look on his face that plainly stated 'I know something you don't know'. Theodore frowned, thinking that Draco was going to say more about the Death Eater's recent activities. "The Triwizard tournament is going to be held at Hogwarts this year. It's supposed to be confidential information, but of course father has all the right contacts at the ministry so I get to hear about it before anyone else."

Theodore did not care about that. He was not listening any more, instead finding himself wondering once again whether Draco would ever be able to learn the fine art of actual communication.

He could hardly repress a snigger when he saw that Draco's once ghost-like robes were covered in grass stains; how long would it be before he noticed that?


	18. Cracked

XVIII. Cracked

The mirror cracked straight down the middle, shards of glass flying everywhere and littering the floor. Andromeda cursed to herself and repaired the mirror with a flick of her wand. Here she was, dressed up like the perfect pureblood princess they wanted her to be, and she absolutely couldn't stand it. She was only seventeen years old, yet her parents were already trying to marry her off to some scion of an old pureblood line. She hated them, she absolutely hated them: it was enough to make her blood boil and her magic fly out of control.

"Don't scowl, dear; it doesn't look pretty," the mirror whined weakly at her, obviously rather put out from having just been smashed to pieces. She could sympathise with it. How strange it was, that she could sympathise more with a mirror than she could with her own family. "Don't you have a party to be getting down to?"

Andromeda shook her head defiantly. No, she most certainly was not going to go down there. She wasn't going to go down there ever again. They were already trying to sell her off as though she was a lump of meat in a market, and she wasn't going to stand for it. Besides, her heart was already taken: it wasn't hers to give away.

Ted. She felt tears in her eyes just thinking about him. Her family would never understand, would never let her have the life she wanted for herself. How funny it was, that she could sympathise more with a mirror than with her own family. Then again perhaps it wasn't surprising at all; her family really did have less life to it than a lump of cold, enchanted glass. There was nothing here for her anymore.

She would never be the perfect, demure, pureblood princess. They would never let her live the life she wanted; they would just keep her in a cage and expect her to be subservient, to sacrifice her heart and soul and simply live to bear heirs for another's line. She wouldn't do it. She _couldn't _do it.

"Darling, really, shouldn't you be going downstairs and greeting the guests?" the mirror asked quietly.

That was when Andromeda Black finally made up her mind. She would never again go down to the parlour and play hostess to a bunch of pureblood snobs, never again be sycophantic and obsequious just to please her parents. No. Never again, never.

She had made up her mind: she was leaving tonight.


	19. Damaged

XIX. Damaged

Theodore could not quite believe that he had managed to get himself involved in this mess. It was bad enough that he had ended up having to rescue Blaise from the Hog's Head, and it was even worse that Draco of all people (Draco, who was supposed to be a _prefect_) had been there as well, but this was just getting ridiculous.

The fifth year boys' bathroom lay in ruins, and it was entirely the fault of Blaise Zabini and Draco Malfoy. Professor Snape was, of course, going to give Theodore detention as well when he found them (because there wasn't a question of _if_ he found them; the damage was too great to be hidden before he got there). Frankly Theodore was just relieved that they were all still alive, if rather annoyed that he had been stupid enough to let the drunken Blaise and Draco out of his sight for nearly an hour after they returned.

And then the dormitory had been filled with smoke and Theodore had rushed into the bathroom to be met with the sight of _that:_ Draco sprawled out on the floor not far from a lit cauldron with a bubbling potion brewing inside it, and Blaise prancing around looking like an utter fool. One sniff of the potion was enough to convince Theodore that he wasn't hallucinating; the drunken imbeciles had in fact been attempting to brew amortentia.

Blaise had stumbled straight into Theodore, a ridiculous grin on his face, and mumbled something that sounded rather like, "I love you and your Potions books, Theo. If we hadn't nicked your notes then we'd never have been able to make this."

Theodore had shoved Blaise away and moved to disappear the rapidly congealing contents of the cauldron, not even wanting to ask whom they were planning to use said amortentia on or asking where on earth the two drunken idiots had got the cauldron from in the first place. There really were some things that he'd rather never know.

Then Blaise had pushed Theodore out of the way before he had a chance to magic away the amortentia, then he had fallen straight into the cauldron, setting fire to his robes and creating the loudest bang Theodore had ever heard in his life. Draco began to shriek with laughter while Theodore doused out the flames that were threatening to eat Blaise's robes, cursing himself that he'd ever been stupid enough to let those two sneak out and get ridiculously drunk again.

Blaise and Draco had managed to make so much noise that they had probably woken the whole castle up, and if not the whole castle then certainly everyone in the dungeons – and considering the fact that the whole room was full of the smell of rotting sweets and bright purple smoke, Professor Snape was going to kill them all when he turned up.

Blaise had started giggling again and Theodore sighed, shaking his head. Who needed enemies when your friends caused as much trouble as this, really?


	20. Danced

XX. Danced

Daphne was a wonderful dancer. Her every movement was graceful, beautiful on the eye. Her hair and robes flowed about her like water and she never missed a single step. It was as though Daphne were made of water herself, so elegant was she.

Millicent wished that she would be able to dance like Daphne one day, but she knew she never would. Where Daphne was water, Millicent was earth, and earth was too solid to ever be graceful and flowing.


	21. Deceived

XXV. Deceived

"You're a liar, Severus Snape! You're no better than Potter!"

Her words from earlier that day still echoed in his mind. How dare she suggest that he was worse than that uncouth bastard Potter? Potter and his friends actually hurt people; all he and Avery had done was play a harmless little prank on one of Lily's stupid Gryffindor friends. They hadn't hurt anyone.

"You're a liar, Severus Snape!"

He wasn't a liar. All he had done was play a harmless little joke. He hadn't deceived her, not really – but the appalled expression in her lovely green eyes was almost enough to make him believe he had actually done something wrong.


	22. Decorated

XXII. Decorated

Theodore had come to the conclusion that Blaise was completely and utterly insane. He hadn't quite believed his eyes when he came into the common room that evening, only to find the whole place decked out in shiny green and silver rope-like things, with a massive tree stuffed into the corner by the fireplace. He had immediately guessed who had done it, though, as Blaise was lounging by the tree, an impossibly smug look on his face.

"Zabini, what exactly have you done?" Theodore growled.

"I've decorated the common room for Christmas," Blaise replied. "What, don't you like it?"

Theodore glared at him in disbelief. "You've decorated the common room for Christmas? What are you, a muggle?"

Blaise pouted. "So you don't like it?"

"No, I most certainly do not!"

Blaise's eyes lit up. "Theo, you're standing under the mistletoe."

Theodore jumped, moving away quickly before Blaise could get any more stupid ideas. "I'm going to go and get Professor Snape. When he sees this he'll make you get rid of it immediately."

Blaise glared and Theodore sulkily as he left the room. Decorating the common room for Christmas… Blaise Zabini really had to have a muggle ancestor somewhere; it was the only way to explain his eccentricities.


	23. Saved

XXIII. Saved

Barty Crouch hated his name, hated his talents, hated his life. Everything about him led to them comparing him to his father. No one had ever asked him if he wanted to be called 'Barty' (and frankly he didn't – Bartemius at least made him sound like a pureblood, but Barty?). No one had ever asked him if he wanted to be brilliant (though honestly he didn't think he was; with all the mudbloods at Hogwarts they had made the NEWTs so easy that a house elf could have got straight Os, let alone an actual wizard). And no one had ever asked him if he had wanted to be born, yet that didn't stop his father from ranting about how he was a complete waste of time and space, how he was never good enough. Nothing anyone did would ever be good enough for that man.

She had been the first one to ever actually look at him and see that he was something other than his father's clone. The beautiful Bellatrix Black, who had been in her seventh year at Hogwarts when Barty was in his first, who had been able to command every Slytherin with a quirk of her lips or a flash of malice in her dark, dark eyes. Yes, she was beauty personified, but a snivelling first year like him had never even crossed her radar.

Then he had met her again in sixth year thanks to Regulus, who had insisted on dragging him to one of the Black family's Christmas balls. The wonderful Bellatrix Black (by then Lestrange) had become even more impossibly beautiful with the passing of time, and this time he was a sixth year, not a snivelling little eleven year old, and though she was married she had noticed him then, the smile on her lips and the glint in her eyes solely for his benefit, no one else's.

She had taken him in and trained him, taught him the beauty of all the things that his fool of a father had been far too quick to condemn outright. She made him see how awe-inspiring magic truly was, how one could ensnare the mind and bend the senses with little more than a word and a flick of the wand. Then she had introduced him to their Lord, who had seen Barty for the power he truly had rather than writing him off as a mere copy of his father, and their Lord had welcomed him into the fold with open arms.

Now Barty saw the laughter in Bellatrix's obsidian eyes and felt a smile curl his own lips. This laughter was only for his benefit now, never for anyone else's, and all the power in the world was his to gain. Bellatrix Lestrange truly was his saviour; he would never bow to his father again.


	24. Deserved

XXIV. Deserved

Tom had found himself an empty compartment upon boarding the train, not wishing to find himself with older students and be forced to reveal how little he actually knew. It annoyed him to no end, the fact that for once in his life other people were actually more aware of things than he; it was not something that had ever happened before. He supposed it was because he had been surrounded by muggles, and muggles were stupid; if wizards had magic then they would obviously be more aware of the world.

The thing he had dreaded had, however, came about when his compartment was invaded by a group of older boys. Things always tended to go wrong in some way or other; that Dumbledore man, for instance, who had come and told him that yes, he was special, but that there were others who were special as well. If there were other people with the same abilities as him, Tom thought, then that didn't make him special at all. He was just another one of many, and he was going to prove to them that that wasn't the case. He was powerful, they were weak, and soon they would all see that.

One of the boys, who had startlingly white hair and a silver badge pinned to the front of his robes, glared down at Tom in disgust. Tom stared defiantly back; this boy may have been a seventh year, but Tom was not about to immediately kowtow to him by default.

"So who are you, little firsty?" the boy asked in a taunting manner. Tom stuck his chin up higher and sneered at him.

"I am Tom Riddle," he said. "And you are?"

"Abraxas Malfoy," came the cold reply. "And with a name like that, coupled with the fact that you don't know who I am, I can tell that you're obviously a mudblood."

Tom didn't need to know the meaning of the word 'mudblood' to tell that it was an insult. His hand was on his wand and he could hardly resist the urge to curse the older boy. What spells could he really use, though? Who knew what these boys had learnt in their time at Hogwarts – magic that Tom could probably barely imagine, no doubt.

"Come on," said Abraxas Malfoy, getting to his feet and glaring at Tom in disgust. "We ought to find another compartment before we're polluted by this filthy little mudblood." Malfoy left, his three goons following mindlessly in his wake, and Tom felt his rage slowly turn to ice.

In the future they would bow to him or they would suffer. As far as he was concerned, they deserved it.


	25. Discovered

XXV. Discovered

"What do you mean I really do have an aunt in Azkaban?" Draco asked, horrified. He had thought that Professor Moody had been lying – after all, why would any member of his family be in Azkaban?

"I mean exactly what I said," his mother replied shortly, obviously uncomfortable with the topic of conversation. "She's been there since the Dark Lord's downfall."

"But no one in our family had anything to do with the Dark Lord!" Draco cried. His mother shook her head.

"No, Draco. My sister was a Death Eater. As were her husband and brother-in-law – and your father."

Draco felt his blood run cold.

"Father was a Eater?"

"Yes, Draco. You did hear me correctly."

"Why did no one ever tell me?"

She didn't reply and he felt like screaming. He had never believed that all his gloating would actually turn out to be the truth.


	26. Exploded

XXVI. Exploded

Greg screamed like a girl. Draco had to admit that he was rather surprised by this; who would ever have thought that a vast lout like Gregory Goyle could make his voice go so high?

Vince snorted, a stupid grin on his face as he said exactly what Draco was thinking.

"Surprised me," Greg grunted, starting to blush. "Wasn't expecting the bloody things to explode, was I?"

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Goyle, did I just hear you correctly?"

"Yeah," Greg said slowly. Vince started to laugh outright.

"So you really did just say that you weren't expecting an explosion to occur whilst playing exploding snap?" Draco said, not quite believing what he was hearing.

"No. Why should I?"

Draco sighed. "The clue is in the name, Goyle. Salazar's blood, you really are as stupid as a muggle."


	27. Was Excited

XXVII. Was Excited

Regulus was excited. He couldn't believe that he'd managed to make the Quidditch team in his second year. He was going to be the best Seeker Slytherin had ever seen.

He was walking along the corridor to his Charms lesson, thinking about just how brilliant it would be to finally get to play Quidditch for his house team, when he crashed straight into someone.

"Watch where you're go…" Regulus began, but stopped when he realised that he'd just managed to slam straight into his older brother. His brother, Sirius, who hadn't spoken a single word to him all year; not that he should have been surprised by that, of course; Gryffindors just didn't speak to Slytherins.

"Daydreaming again, were you?" Sirius snapped.

Regulus shrugged. Why did his brother have to appear and spoil his good mood?

"I heard you made the Slytherin team. Is that true?" Sirius asked.

Regulus nodded. "Yes. I'm going to be playing Seeker."

"And I'm still a Chaser," Sirius said, "So you know what that means? I'll be seeing you on the Quidditch pitch in a month's time."

A smile appeared on Sirius' face. An actual, proper smile, not one of the false ones that he had been shooting his parents across the dinner table for the past three years. Regulus couldn't help but smile back. Suddenly he felt even more excited than he had before.


	28. Escaped

XXVIII. Escaped

Tom was used to walking around London on his own. He did it all the time. They weren't really supposed to leave _that place_, of course, but Tom always did. They either never noticed because they were too stupid, or they noticed but just didn't care. After all, why worry about one orphaned little boy who meant nothing to anyone in the world? It wasn't as though his parents would come and complain if he got hurt.

This time was different though. This time he actually had permission to be wandering about the streets of London. It was the middle of July and stifling hot, but the skies were overcast and Tom could smell the rain in the air. He was going to get soaked and then someone was going to tell him off for getting water all over the floor when he got in, he just knew it.

But what could they really say this time? It was necessary for him to go out and get his new school supplies, wasn't it? They were bound to think this a good thing, if they thought anything at all. After all, with him at school they would have one less mouth to feed and more money to go around (not that what little money there was, was ever spent on the children, oh no).

The rain started coming down in buckets, soaking through the holes in Tom's shoes and making his feet feel rather unpleasant. It reminded him rather of the seaside trip a couple of years ago, when he had found that cave and… No, he mustn't think of that now. It wouldn't do to be seen smiling to himself whilst in public; someone might think he was mad.

It was then that he saw it, the 'Leakey Cauldron'. That was the place that Dumbledore had told him to find. It was a surprisingly shabby little pub, with the sign hanging off and cracks in the walls, and for a moment Tom wondered if it was the right place. If it was run by wizards and witches then why was it in such a state of near-disrepair? Surely magic could fix anything. It had to be the right place though – if the name hadn't been enough of a giveaway, the fact that the idiotic masses were oblivious to its existence certainly was.

As soon as Tom stepped through the door into the smoky little pub and saw the men and women sitting around in robes, dishes washing themselves and owls flying in through the windows, he realised that this was what he had been waiting for all these years. He had finally escaped.


	29. Enjoyed

XXIX. Enjoyed

Tracey Davis was annoyed and she didn't care who knew it. So what if Slytherins weren't supposed to be emotional? They could make fun of her all they wanted, she was in far too bad a mood care about their taunts right now. Anyway, if anyone did anything to fray her nerves any more, it might even have been a good thing; she wanted an excuse to hex someone.

"You've been sulking all day."

And now Parkinson was talking to her – and Pansy Parkinson talking to her was never a good thing. She was, after all, the snobbiest pureblood supremacist that Tracey had ever met, and Tracey had the unfortunate _pleasure _of being a half-blood in Slytherin. Well, this day just got worse and worse.

"Of course I'm sulking," Tracey snarled. "They won't let me play Quidditch. I'm a hundred times better than that prat Warrington, but according to Flint I can't be on the sodding team! I mean is it illegal for me to enjoy myself or something?"

"Obviously." Parkinson was looking at Tracey as though she had gone mad. "You're a girl. Girls don't play Quidditch."

"_Girls don't play Quidditch_?" Tracey spat out, staring at Pansy in despair. "Merlin's beard, even the Hufflepuffs know better than that. Slytherin is so _medieval_!" She sat down on her bed and drew the curtains around herself before Parkinson had a chance to say anything even more annoying.


	30. Gaze

XXX. Gaze

"Zabini, would you care to enlighten me as to why you're staring across the Hall like a lovesick Krup?"

Theodore's sharp tone broke Blaise out of his daydream, which caused Blaise to fix his friend with a very angry stare.

"I was just looking," he said sulkily.

"At what?" Theodore asked.

"Take a guess."

"Well, considering the fact that you were staring pointedly at the Ravenclaws, one could assume that you've taken a fancy to the Grey Lady," Theodore drawled. Blaise glared at him.

"Not the Grey Lady, you idiot. Lisa Turpin."

Theodore choked on a mouthful of pumpkin juice, looking thoroughly disgusted. "That mudblood?"

"Who really cares if it's a mublood so long as it's pretty on the eye?" Blaise sighed.

Theodore shook his head in disbelief. "If that's the case then be a bit more subtle. Can you imagine what Draco would say if he caught you gazing mindlessly at one of them like that?"

"Shut up, Theo. Can't you just let me have my fun for once?"


	31. Loved

XXXI. Loved

Tracey was trying to read her book, but in all honesty she couldn't bring herself to concentrate. He was across the room from her, just within her line of sight, and every now and then she would catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye and it would ruin her concentration completely.

"What are you doing, staring at Nott all the time?"

Tracey mentally cursed. She had been so preoccupied that she hadn't even seen Daphne Greengrass come over. She momentarily wondered what Greengrass was doing in the library anyway – shouldn't she be bribing some poor, besotted Ravenclaw to do all her work for her like she usually did?

"What do you want, Greengrass?" Tracey said through gritted teeth. "And before you say anything, no, I will not do your essay for you."

"As if I'd want _you_ to do my work for me," Greengrass sneered. Tracey glared at her.

"What do you want, Greengrass?" she repeated, even more tersely this time.

"Well I've come in here to do some work, and it was either sitting with you or with the Hufflepuffs," Greengrass replied. "Anyway, why are you staring at Nott all the time? It's like you're in love with him or something."

Tracey felt herself going scarlet and knew that there was no way that Greengrass wouldn't notice.

"Merlin's beard, you _do_ like him!" Greengrass squeaked, looking positively delighted. "Does he know?"

Tracey shook her head. Wasn't that much obvious?

Greengrass frowned. "Ouch. That's never good." She looked genuinely upset for Tracey, which was more than a little unnerving. "Well, at least the guy you like isn't gay." She momentarily looked as though she'd said a little too much, but the expression disappeared almost as soon as Tracey noticed it. Still, it was enough for her to realise that Greengrass obviously had her eye on Zabini, and probably had done for quite some time.

Tracey loved Theodore and Daphne loved Blaise, and neither boy was at all aware of what was going on. Whoever would have thought that she would ever have something in common with Daphne Greengrass?


	32. Grabbed

XXXII. Grabbed

When Lucius Malfoy felt someone grab hold of his arm as he was walking down the corridor, his immediate reaction was to pull away in disgust and spin round to glare at the person who had dared to touch him without his permission. His gaze faltered slightly, almost imperceptibly, as he realised that it was no filthy mudblood invading his personal space, but rather the somewhat intimidating seventh year, Bellatrix Black.

"What do you want, Black?" Lucius snapped, determined not to let Bellatrix realise that she'd worried him. After all, why should he be surprised that she wanted to talk to him? Even though she was a seventh year and he was only a fifth year, Slytherins mixed more than any of the other houses; contacts were important regardless of age, after all.

"Don't worry, Lucy; I'm being nice to you," Bellatrix said with a smile, but suddenly her wand was out and pointed at his throat. Lucius forced himself not to flinch. "You didn't ask my permission."

Lucius frowned. "Your permission for what, Black?"

Bellatrix laughed. "Calm, aren't you? That's rather annoying. And you know exactly what I mean: you should have asked my permission before going anywhere near my Cissy."

"I hardly think your sister belongs to you," Lucius drawled, catching hold of Bellatrix's wrist and yanking her wand away from him. "I'll do as I please with her, and it is of absolutely no concern to you."

"Father will never let you have her!" Bellatrix hissed, incensed.

"He already has," Lucius replied icily, not caring to keep the smirk off his face. "Now if you'll excuse me, Black, I have a class to be getting to."

He walked off down the corridor, leaving Bellatrix Black behind him, more furious than anyone had ever seen her before.


	33. Guarded

XXX. Guarded

Vince was complaining again. Vince always complained. If Greg had been anyone else then Vince's complaining would probably annoyed him, but Greg was patient so he didn't say anything.

Vince wasn't patient like Greg. He didn't understand that they had to wait outside the secret room like this so no one found Draco. He didn't understand that they had to help Draco because by helping Draco they were helping the Dark Lord. Vince just thought that learning the Dark Arts was all he had to do to become powerful, but Greg knew he was wrong. To be worthy of serving the Dark Lord they had to wait and had to work hard.

Vince sulked and glared at Greg again.

"I'm sick of guarding this room. It's boring," he snarled. The tone of his voice was very disturbing because it was coming from a young girl's mouth. Greg almost found it scary, but he knew he couldn't actually be scared. If he was scared by girl-Vince's voice then he really was as stupid as Draco said he was.

Vince kept complaining. Greg listened dutifully and nodded. Even though he was stupid and Vince wasn't, Greg knew that he understood something Vince didn't. They had to protect Draco while he was doing this; if they didn't then it wasn't only Draco who would suffer.


	34. Hoped

XXXIV. Hoped

Listening to them talk is almost enough to drive Tom to despair. They all have such shallow, inconsequential dreams – as shallow and inconsequential as they themselves are, Tom thinks.

Avery wants to be Minister of Magic. He thinks he will control the whole world one day. Tom knows otherwise; Avery could not command a muggle, let alone a nation of wizards.

Nott fancies himself as an Unspeakable. He thinks he will be party to the most wondrous and dangerous of all magic, and that he will one day be the master of it. Tom knows otherwise; Nott does not have the strength of character to master himself, let alone powerful, old magic.

Rosier wants to be the head of the Auror department. He thinks that he will be able to get away with practicing Dark Magic for as long as he pleases there. After all, who is ever going to send an Auror for Azkaban for practicing the Cruciatus on a prisoner? No one cares if those who deserve it get hurt. Tom knows otherwise; Rosier will never be able to control his lust for the Dark Arts well enough to hide it from the world.

Lestrange thinks he will become head of Magical Law Enforcement, as he thinks he will be able to manipulate the whole of the Ministry from there. After all, who can argue with the law except those who are above it? Tom knows otherwise; Lestrange's silver tongue is so sharp that he will rip himself to shreds before he manages to truly ruin those who deserve it.

Mulciber wants to become senior editor of the Daily Prophet. He thinks that the newspapers are really in charge, not the Ministry, as it is through the media rather than the government that people truly see what's going on it the world. Tom knows otherwise; Mulciber will never be able to control the media because he himself is already deluded by it.

They all have such inconsequential hopes and dreams, but Tom does not. Tom knows better. Why hope for power like they do when power beyond their wildest imaginings is already in his grasp?


	35. Helped

XXXV. Helped

Astoria was nervous. She entered the hospital wing but didn't look up, instead fixing her gaze on her feet and concentrating on not dropping the presents that she was carrying. Why oh why did they have to tell her to go up and see Draco Malfoy? She didn't even know him that well, he was two years older than her, and besides that he was _Draco Malfoy_. Why did they all seem to think he'd tolerate her when she was just a snivelling little second year?

As she approached Draco's bed, Astoria noticed that Crabbe and Goyle were with him as usual, two hulking immobile statues with matching sneers on their faces. Goyle cracked his knuckles threatening at her, but stopped as Draco shot him a warning look. Despite the fact that he had two black eyes, a swollen lip and his right arm in a cast, Draco Malfoy looked as terrifying as he ever did.

"How many times do I have to tell you not to act like a muggle?" Draco snapped. Goyle hung his head, looking suitably ashamed. "What do you want, Daphne? I _told _you I didn't want any visitors."

Astoria blushed. She was only a second year _and _he thought she was her older sister. Well this was just wonderful, wasn't it?

"Not Daphne," she mumbled, fixing her gaze on her feet again as she dropped the presents at the end of his bed. "Astoria. And they told me you wouldn't mind me bringing you these."

"And who, pray tell, are _they_?" he snarled.

"Everyone else in your year," Astoria mumbled. "And the Quidditch team, and… well, basically all of us. No one's happy for what Professor Moody did to you, you know. He's horrible; I don't like him. We know you don't want to see too many people, but I… we… well, we're just trying to help. Trying to be nice."

"In that case the sweets are appreciated," Draco replied, lying back on his pillows and beckoning for Crabbe to pass him a chocolate frog, a contented smirk on his face.

Astoria took that as her cue to leave. She couldn't quite believe that she had just spoken to _Draco __Malfoy_ and he hadn't ignored her. She scurried out of the hospital wing, keeping her gaze fixed on her feet so he didn't realise that she was blushing.


	36. Ignored

XXXVI. Ignored

Terence Higgs was not used to being ignored. For the past two years he had been Slytherin's star Seeker, beloved by every single member of his house – even those who had no interest in Quidditch.

The same people who had once kissed the ground he walked on hadn't bothered to so much as look at him in weeks.

He had lost. He had lost to a Gryffindor. He had lost to a Gryffindor first year. He had lost to a Gryffindor first year who had never heard of Quidditch until a few weeks previously, much less played it. The situation got worse and worse every time he thought about it.

Terence Higgs was not used to being ignored, but he knew that there was nothing he could do about the situation: it was, after all, entirely his own fault. You won and they loved you, you failed and they hated you; that was simply the way life worked in Slytherin house.


	37. Imagined

XXXVII. Imagined

Narcissa Black likes to imagine things. Her mother says that it's a hideous trait for a young lady to sit there, daydreaming, but Narcissa doesn't care. She likes to lose herself in fantasies of being in her mother's place one day – only her dresses will be finer than her mother's meringue-like monstrosities, her guests will be far more interesting than the bores with whom her mother forces her to associate, and her husband will be far more handsome than her stern, severe father.

Narcissa particularly likes to imagine herself dancing with this husband of hers, and of course they are beautiful and graceful and far more elegant than any other couple of their generation. Narcissa has always known that her husband must be fantastically handsome (and of course fantastically rich, as nothing else would be befitting of a Black), for she knows that she could not bear to be with someone who faded when placed beside her, which sadly most do.

In her most precious dream of all, she is with Lucius Malfoy. He is her husband, the richest and most powerful man of their generation, and he is hers and hers alone. He only has eyes for her, and they live together in that splendid mansion of his in Wiltshire with a beautiful blond son who is like Lucius in every way but has her eyes. Perhaps Lucius will allow her to call the boy Draco. She has always liked the name, but she doesn't know whether he'd allow it. Lucius Malfoy always gets his own way… but then again, Narcissa always gets her own way, too.

Of course Narcissa knows that that will never happen (what self-respecting witch truly believes in fairytales?), but still, it's always nice to dream.


	38. Impressed

XXXVIII. Impressed

"I'm not happy with you, Snape."

As soon as he heard the word 'Snape' come out of her mouth, Severus knew he had done something wrong. It was very rare for Lily to become so annoyed with him that she used his surname – but what had he done this time?

"I don't understand."

Others would have described her expression as cold, but Severus only saw green flames reaching out to burn him to dust.

"You cursed Mary."

"That wasn't me!" he protested. She wasn't listening.

"It might as well have been," Lily snapped. "It was your curse. Everyone knows it. Even though Mulciber was the one who cast it, you're the one who created it, so in a way you're worse than he is!"

Severus opened his mouth then closed it again when he realised he would never be able to say the right thing.

"You may have impressed your Slytherin friends, but you haven't impressed me," Lily hissed. "Not at all. Now go off and play with the other future Death Eaters."

She shot him another blazing glare and Severus felt himself crumble to dust.


	39. Joked

XXXIX. Joked

"You know, sometimes I wish I could kill all of those filthy mudbloods. All of them, one by one, preferably slowly and painfully," Draco drawled. "Think about how funny it would be, seeing them writhe in pain and knowing that you were the one who had caused it, who had all that power over them."

Whatever Draco had been expecting Theodore to do glaring at him in disgust certainly was not it. How dare Theodore look at him like that! Didn't he know that he was dealing with a Malfoy, not some common muck?

"Don't joke about things like that," Theodore said, something dangerous flashing in his eyes. "Death isn't funny."

"It is when the dead thing's a mudblood," Draco shot back, sulking. What was Theodore playing at, acting like a mudwallower? Maybe he secretly was one.

"You really are a child, Draco, do you realise that?" Theodore sighed. "You've obviously never actually seen what death looks like."

"Oh, and you have, have you?"

The stony silence that was his reply told him all he needed to know.


	40. Juggled

XL. Juggled

It was well past midnight when Blaise finally returned to the Slytherin quarters. He snuck into the common room, hoping to avoid being seen by anyone, but unfortunately for him, Theodore was still awake.

"You've been practicing your juggling again, I take it," Theodore said as Blaise collapsed onto a seat next to him, resigning himself to the fact that he would have to have a conversation before he could go to bed.

"What in Merlin's name are you on about?" Blaise groaned. "Juggling? What?" He honestly didn't have a clue what Theodore meant.

"I'm talking about your juggling of your pets, of course," Theodore drawled. "Which one was it tonight? You have so many that it's a wonder you can keep track of them all. I certainly can't."

"Would you kindly shut it, Theo dear?" Blaise said, trying and failing to stifle a yawn. "You can't deny that my juggling skills are rather impressive, can you?"

"I certainly can't, Blaise. I certainly can't."


	41. Learned

XLI. Learned

Severus Snape had learnt everything he needed to know about life before he even got to Hogwarts. Having to live with his spineless mother and that hideous muggle had certainly seen to that.

Severus had first learnt magic at the age of five. Even decades later he could still remember the first spell his mother had taught him – a shielding charm, simple yet necessary. Eileen Snape had had two black eyes at the time, having fallen foul of yet another of the muggle's hideous fits of temper. He supposed that the beating had been bad enough that she had decided that she was not going to let the muggle lay a finger on her son. She never raised her wand against her husband though, and a broken arm soon followed the two black eyes.

Severus had first learnt how to hate at the age of six. He had heard the word being thrown about for years, of course, mostly from that hideous muggle's mouth in the direction of his long-suffering mother. Then one day he realised that he hated the muggle – hated him for being so cruel and drunken and generally useless. And he realised that he hated his mother, too, for being too weak to stand up to him. He vowed that he would never become like they were.

Severus had first learnt how to love at the age of seven. He had first seen the red-haired angel in the park when he was seven, when he was hiding in the bushes, knowing that the muggle would never be able to find him there. He almost felt guilty for leaving his mother with the muggle, but it was her own fault if she was too stupid to curse him, wasn't it? That's when he had seen the red-haired angel, swinging higher and higher on the swing then jumping off, flying for a moment and then landing perfectly. He knew that angels were supposed to be blonde, of course, but the blonde haired girl with the angel was obviously just human; her blue eyes were narrowed into a sneer and she was sulking, looking all-too upset and human while the angel looked serene and happy. The angel shot a grin in the direction of the bushes where Severus was hiding, and he felt almost as though she were smiling at him, though of course he knew she wasn't. Whoever would smile at _him_? Then the angel and her human companion left, and Severus knew that he would have to come back to see the angel again.

Severus Snape had learnt everything he needed to know in life long before he even got to Hogwarts – and he had learnt much more than any young boy would ever wish to know.


	42. Listened

XLII. Listened

There were ghosts in his house. Blaise was absolutely sure of this. He couldn't see them, not like the ghosts at Hogwarts, but he knew they were there.

Sometimes the spot in the dining room where his first stepfather had died would become icy and cold and reek of raspberries. He knew that his mother had given the man raspberry tea laced with some sort of poison, though which (hemlock or cyanide and strychnine) he could not tell.

Sometimes the steps where they had found his second stepfather's body would turn from pure white marble to the shade of garnets. That was what it had looked like when all the blood had dried.

Sometimes the parlour would become so cold that there was ice on the windows in the middle of summer. Breezes would rush through the room and extinguish the fire and leave him alone in the dark, stroking his cheeks with fingers of frost.

Those were the ones whose deaths Blaise had seen, but there were others as well. He would see shades in the mirrors and faces in the windows, their expressions contorted in agony as they tried to grasp onto the life that was slowly slipping away from them.

Blaise knew that there were ghosts in his house. Even though he couldn't see them, sometimes at night, if he really listened, he could hear them screaming.


	43. Managed

XLIII. Managed

"Draco, are you sure you can manage?"

Draco forced himself to smile, but mentally he was screaming in annoyance.

"Yes, Pansy. I'm sure I'll be able to managed to eat dinner on my own."

"But that filthy Hippogriff hurt you so badly!" Pansy cried. "Please, Draco. Just let me help you."

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco could see Blaise Zabini and Millicent Bulstrode choking with laughter. Suddenly playing up what the Hippogriff had done to him in order to get the half-breed sacked didn't seem like it had been such a good idea.


	44. Marched

XLIV. Marched

Astoria was curled up in the corner of the Hog's Head, her head in her hands and her knees pulled up to her chest. The sounds of the battle raging at Hogwarts were audible even through the thick stone walls, the screams and crashes and blasts. In the Hog's Head it was noisy, too, as the place was filled with people who were sheltering from the battle – families mostly or underage Hogwarts students. There were only a few Slytherins like themselves; most had been left out in the no man's land between Hogwarts and Hogsmeade to fend for themselves. They were the children of what was soon to be the losing side, she knew, so why should anyone care for them now? She couldn't believe that this was happening, that the Dark Lord's forces were finally being met with opposition and that the end of the war was almost there.

"Are you alright?"

Daphne was sitting next to her, looking just as worried as she felt. Daphne placed a hand on her sister's shoulder.

"Astoria, it'll be fine. You'll see."

"How can you say that?" Astoria asked, shaking her head. "It won't be fine at all. Some of our closest friends have marched off to fight a pointless battle, and you're sitting there saying it will be ok. It doesn't matter who wins; we'll be dead either way. If the Dark Lord wins we'll be killed as cowards. If the rebels win then they'll condemn us for just being Slytherins. You saw the look on McGonagall's face earlier, didn't you?"

"You're worrying over nothing," Daphne replied curtly. "If the Dark Lord wins he can't kill us because he needs good, pureblood breeding stock."

"We're not animals, Daphne."

"No, but better that than being dead" Daphne said. "And if the rebels win we won't get in trouble. They'll have so many actual Death Eaters to deal with that they'll leave us alone."

"They won't realise that we've suffered, though," Astoria whispered.

"Of course they won't. The winning side never realises that the losers suffered, too," Daphne shrugged. "But promise me you won't worry too much. We'll survive this. You'll see. We've come too far to end up dead now."


	45. Marked

XLV. Marked

It was almost enough to make Lucius feel guilty. At least it would have been had he had any idea what guilt was. His wife was sitting on the other side of the room, refusing to meet his eyes. The look on her face lay somewhere between worry and anger, and it reminded him a little too much of the past for comfort; she had always worn that look when he had done something for the Dark Lord that displeased and worried her, but this time it was far, far worse than he had ever seen it before.

"Narcissa, darling, stop sulking," Lucius said at last, hoping that saying something might lead to his wife's foul mood abating. Unfortunately for him it had quite the opposite effect.

"I'm sulking, am I, Lucius?" Narcissa snapped. She looked so tense that it was actually beginning to make him worry.

"Yes, and I know you're fully aware of what you're doing, so kindly stop it," he sighed.

"I have every right to despise you right now, Lucius Malfoy," Narcissa replied curtly, still refusing to look at him.

"Calm down, Narcissa," Lucius said. It took a great deal of self-restraint not to add 'please' to the end of that sentence; after all, no pureblood man should ever have to beg his wife for anything.

"You've just sold my son's soul to a demon and you have the nerve to tell me to calm down!" Narcissa shrieked. She was looking straight at him now, and the rage in her eyes was almost enough to make Lucius sorry that this was the case. "How dare you! It was painful enough watching you do that to yourself, but to know that our son bears the mark as well…" She faltered, swaying slightly and collapsing back into the chair. "How could you? How could you do that to Draco? He's our son. He's _your only son_. He's just a little boy."

"If Draco hadn't joined the Dark Lord then he would have killed us all," Lucius said at last. "I only did what was best for him." And for you, he thought, but he dared not say that aloud.


	46. Memorised

XLVI. Memorised

Daphne had every facet of Blaise memorised.

She knew that he never took less than five sugars in his coffee and that he had never drunk a cup of tea in his life.

She knew that he only wore platinum jewellery because gold didn't suit him and he hated that silver tarnished.

She knew that his favourite colour was red and that he hated being in Slytherin because wearing green made him look ill.

She knew that he'd never met his father and didn't even know who he was, and even though he pretended not to care, he desperately wanted to know.

She knew that he liked to wear red lipstick not in spite of the fact that it made him look almost exactly like his mother but because of it.

She knew how he laughed all the time because if he didn't he'd probably have killed himself by now.

She knew that he drank too much because it was the easiest way to convince himself that he wasn't going to be his mother's next victim, and if he was going to end up poisoned then he'd rather do it himself.

She knew how his eyes lit and sparkled up whenever he saw something beautiful – woman, man, object: it was all the same to him.

Daphne had every facet of Blaise memorised, but she knew that he never really saw her at all. To her he was just 'Queenie', the source he went to when he ran out of magazines to read or makeup to wear or gossip to spread, nothing more.

It was strange that the only woman who truly cared about Blaise also happened to be the one person whom he never spared a second glance.


	47. Messed up

XLVII. Messed Up

"Whatever you do, Cissy, don't mess up."

There was the unspoken threat in Bellatrix's voice that if Narcissa messed up at all, people would think her a disgrace just like Andromeda and the Black family name would fall completely into ruin.

Narcissa glared at her sister as she finished the final touches to her rather elaborate hairstyle. How dare Bellatrix suggest that something would go wrong at her debutante ball? True, Bellatrix had got herself into a fair amount of trouble at her own first ball by getting ridiculously drunk off large quantities of gin then disappearing with Rodolphus Lestrange, which was just not befitting of a proper pureblood. But that was Bella, and Bella was outrageous.

Andromeda's debutante hadn't been so bad as Bellatrix's, but even she had managed to embarrass herself by somehow spilling Chianti over the minister's wife's finest dress robes, but that was Meda, and Meda had been shy and awkward. That was why her departure had caused doubly much of a scandal.

Narcissa knew that nothing was going to go wrong for her debutante ball though. She was not Bellatrix or Andromeda; she was Narcissa, the girl who had longed to be able to go to balls many years before she had even been allowed to leave the nursery. She was Narcissa, who had a far better knowledge of pureblood etiquette than Bellatrix the exhibitionist or that traitor Andromeda.

"I'm not going to do anything incorrectly, Bella dear," Narcissa said icily. "So don't you dare mess this up for me."

Bellatrix scowled sulkily, and the defeated expression on her face was enough to tell Narcissa that yes, her debut would be wonderful. After all, Bellatrix had never been able to say 'no' to her dear, baby Cissy.

Bellatrix and Andromeda may have been disgraces, but Narcissa never would be; she was Narcissa Black, and everything in her life was always going to be perfect.


	48. Moved

XLVIII. Moved

The sound of Blaise's swearing filled the common room as Theodore moved to take his king. Again.

"I do believe that makes it five points to me and none to you," Theodore drawled, looking simultaneously smug and exasperated. "Sorry, Zabini."

"You're not sorry at all, you bloody liar," Blaise sulked. "You're gloating."

"I do not gloat about victories over such feeble opponents. Don't flatter yourself," Theodore replied.

Blaise opened his mouth to retort but was cut off by Pansy.

"Will you two Ravenclaws give it a rest?" she snapped.

"Oh sod off and go paint your nails, Pansy," Blaise groaned. "You know damn well that we're not Ravenclaws."

"Unless of course she's even stupider than we previously thought," Theodore muttered, smirking as Pansy flushed scarlet.

"Well why are you spending all your time playing chess then?" she snapped.

"Because, Parkinson, I have set myself the rather impossible task of teaching Blaise here some elemental strategy," Theodore explained. "His thought processes at the moment are rather more befitting of a Ravenclaw than a Slytherin."

"If he's so bad then why don't you play with me?" Pansy suggested.

Blaise looked like he was about to ask why Pansy wanted to play something that she had just deemed to be a pointless Ravenclaw pastime, but Theodore swiftly kicked him under the table before he could say anything.

Theodore's expression changed to one of exaggerated horror. "My dear Parkinson, the fact remains that even if Zabini is a Ravenclaw, I can say with utmost certainty that you would only ever be a Gryffindor."

Pansy's face turned to a hitherto unknown shade of red and Blaise descended into hysterics, knocking the chessboard off the table as he laughed. Theodore smirked to himself; all was well in Slytherin house.


	49. Murdered

XLIX. Murdered

He would not cry. He would not cry. He would not cry.

"Draco, look at me."

Snape's voice was so commanding that Draco immediately did as he was told, blinking back tears and trying to stop shaking as he did so.

He would not cry.

"Listen to me, Draco. It is of the utmost importance that the Dark Lord does not realise that you are upset," Snape hissed. "I did not risk my life to help you only for the Dark Lord to dispose of you mere hours later, is that understood?"

Draco couldn't really listen. All he could see was the flash of green light and the expression on Dumbledore's face as he fell. Those blue eyes had been empty, too empty, too like his father's had been when he first returned from Azkaban. He had seen two kinds of death of late and feared both, not that he could ever let anyone know that.

He would not cry.

"I… I killed him," Draco choked out at last. "I killed Albus Dumbledore."

"I think you will find that the Dark Lord's problem will lie in the fact that you did not. You have neither the inclination nor the ability required to kill a man. Had you been capable of doing so, we would not be in this mess right now." Snape gritted his teeth and grabbed hold of his left forearm, his face contorted in pain. "It appears that I have been summoned. You will wait here until the Dark Lord requires your presence also."

With that he swept out of the room, leaving Draco alone with the images that kept playing through his mind, images of icy green light sapping pale blue eyes of all their warmth: images of fear, of laughter, of failure, of death.

He would not cry. He would not cry. He would not cr…

His resolve broke.


	50. Needed

L. Needed

"Umm, Blaise, I need to borrow a quill. Do you have a spare one?"

Blaise looked up from his work to see Daphne standing next to him.

"Sure, I've always got spares," he said cheerfully, pulling one out of his bag and handing it to her.

Daphne smiled. "Thanks, Blaise." With that she scooted off to the other side of the common room.

Pansy looked up at Blaise, smirking.

"What is it?" Blaise sighed.

"Daphne likes you," Pansy said with a grin.

Blaise rolled his eyes. "Sure, Pansy. Stop trying to play matchmaker; it's boring."

"I'm not trying to play matchmaker! Didn't you notice that she was blushing?" Pansy asked, exasperated.

"Probably just wearing too much blusher," Blaise said with a shrug, chewing the end of his quill.

Pansy shook her head in disbelief. "You really are impossible, Zabini."


	51. Noticed

LI. Noticed

Tom was seething. He had made up his mind that he hated Professor Dumbledore, absolutely hated him. He had thought that he would have escaped that kind of bigotry when he left the muggles behind, but obviously that wasn't the case. It was never going to be the case.

Tom knew that he was brilliant, and obviously all the other Slytherins did as well. He had managed to transfigure his match into a perfect needle on his first try, which was enough to make Nott's jaw drop open in amazement and caused Mulciber to beg him for some help. Yes, they knew he was talented, but that stupid Dumbledore man seemed determined to think otherwise. He had awarded Tom a mere point for Slytherin while giving ten points to two of his precious Gryffindors even though their transfigurations were less than half-completed by the end of the lesson.

Tom had been seething all day as a result of the blatant prejudice and injustice. Avery had comforted him by saying that Dumbledore was a mudblood-loving old fool who didn't know talent when he saw it. Lestrange had insisted that Dumbledore, while not old, had probably already gone senile from messing around with too much old magic. Rosier's explanation was the simplest though; Dumbledore had been a Gryffindor at school, and Gryffindors had always despised Slytherins. It was nothing personal even if it was annoying.

Tom, however, was inclined to believe that Rosier was wrong on that count. Of course it was personal; Dumbledore had realised just how powerful Tom was, and he was already worried about the threat of a possible future opponent. The man obviously thought that by ignoring Tom he could make him go away, but that was going to be counterproductive. Tom had already made up his mind; Dumbledore may have been a prejudiced old fool, but one day he would notice him. Tom wasn't going to give the man any choice in the matter.


	52. Obeyed

LII. Obeyed

"You are not to go running around after that madman, Lucius, do you understand?" Abraxas Malfoy had jumped to his feet, slamming his glass of firewhisky down on the table and shattering it, causing glass and liquid to scatter all over the floor.

Lucius looked on, his expression impassive, but inside he was seething.

"Unfortunately for you, father, I have already pledged my alligence to his cause," Lucius replied coldly. "I would have thought that you of all people would have understood the truth of the Dark Lord's message."

"Dark Lord indeed," Abraxas sneered. "It all sounds awfully distasteful to me. Mark my words, boy, you'll find out one day that the man you're so blindly wanting to follow is a mudblood himself. Lord indeed, wizards don't have lords."

"You will see the truth in time, father."

"No, Lucius. You will stop this thoughtless gallivanting and look after your wife like you are supposed to," Abraxas replied coldly, waving away the spilt firewhisky and the pieces of broken glass with a flick of his wand. "You may be besotted with this charismatic imbecile, but I am your father and for as long as I live you will obey me. Is that understood?"

"Yes, father" Lucius said through gritted teeth. He had to obey his father for as long as he was alive? Then so be it; his father would not live for very much longer.


	53. Offended

LIII. Offended

"A mudblood's been petrified."

Tracey had been unable to sleep again, so she had been curled up in a corner of the common room, reading. She had been entirely absorbed in her book until that lout Marcus Flint stumbled in, obviously half drunk and reeking of firewhisky.

"How do you know, Flint?" a scrawny fourth year boy with scruffy, blonde hair asked, looking as curious as Tracey felt.

"Because I saw them carrying him up to the hospital wing, Carrington," Flint snapped.

"And why were you out? You're not a prefect," a stern looking girl with black hair snapped, glaring at Flint over the top of her horn-rimmed glasses. She was the head girl at the time – Devereux or Deveral or Devery or something, Tracey couldn't quite remember.

Flint grinned stupidly and lumbered over to the couch, sitting himself down near Theodore Nott, a Slytherin boy in her year whom Tracey thought was rather stuck up. They had been in the same house for well over a year now – they ate dinner at the same table, had all the same classes and socialised in the same rooms, yet Nott had never spoken a single word to her.

"So who's been petrified?" Carrington asked, cutting the head girl off before she had a chance to say anything more.

"Some first year Gryff," Flint replied. Nott cringed, looking slightly ill from the potent stench of firewhisky on the older boy's breath. "That slimly little mudblood who's constantly asking the Potter brat for photos. Can I have your autograph, Potter? Can I lick your shoes please, Potter? Filthy little mudblood brat. Deserved everything he got."

Tracey felt anger bubbling up inside her, feeling more than a little offended. How dare he use that word! Idiots like Flint were the reason that everyone thought that Slytherin was full of prejudiced idiots. She didn't mean to say anything, but Flint was sitting there with a smug, self-satisfied look on his ugly face and she just couldn't help herself.

"Stop using the word mudblood!" she snapped and suddenly the whole room's attention was fixed on her. So much for her plans to sit quietly and read a book.

"What's it to you?" Flint asked. Tracey noticed that he sounded more drunk and less coherent every time he spoke.

"Flint, shut up," the head girl snapped, then turned to Tracey with a filthy look in her eyes. "Davis, bed. Now."

Tracey knew that there was no point in staying around and arguing. The smell of drink was making her feel ill, and perhaps Parkinson and Greengrass would have finally shut up so she'd be able to sleep. She made her way towards the girls' dormitories, but just before she was out of sight she heard someone else speak.

"It's a pity the mudblood bastard's not dead," Nott drawled, causing all the older students to begin to roar with laughter.

Tracey shot him an acidic look, deciding that Nott really wasn't worth her time. Yes, Theodore Nott was a very nasty little boy.


	54. Owed

LIV. Owed

"Theo, can I borrow…"

"No," Theodore said, interrupting Blaise before he could finish his sentence. "You already owe me ten galleons. I'm not going to give you any more."

"But…"

"If you're completely broke then ask Draco. You know he's far richer in money than he is in sense."

"But Draco's mean," Blaise whined. "If I ask him for money he'll gloat about it for the next three months. You know what he's like!"

"I know but I don't care."

"Please, Theo," Blaise said. He wasn't above begging to get what he wanted. "You know I'll pay you back."

"And how exactly," Theodore drawled, "do you intend to do that, seeing as you're constantly scrounging money off the rest of us?"

"There are other ways I could pay you back. Ways that are much better than money." Blaise smirked at Theodore, who glared back at him.

"I know I have no interest in such things, Zabini, so save your breath and drop the subject. I'm not going to lend you any more money."


	55. Owned

LV. Owned

His grin is feral and cold, the kind of look a cat would wear when playing with a helpless bird, but she does not realise this. To her his expression is not one of smugness but delight; to her he is an angel, and angels do not taunt or torture.

"I love you, Draco," she whispers, the words passing her lips before she realises what she is saying.

"You'd better, Pansy," he replies, laughing. "I own you after all."

She giggles, thinking he is joking. She does not realise that her angel is really just a spoiled little boy.


	56. Paused

LVI. Paused

"Let me see if I understand you correctly, Parkinson," Theodore said slowly. "You want me to pause everything I'm doing now in order to help you transfigure Bulstrode's cat back to its original form?"

Pansy nodded glumly. "I didn't mean for it to get turned into a stuffed toy," she mumbled. "The spell just sort of went wrong."

"I gathered that," Theodore replied, sneering at her. "Someone like you would never be able to perform such a complicated transfiguration on purpose."

Pansy opened her mouth to retort but then thought better of it.

"Please, Nott. Bulstrode will kill me!"

Theodore shrugged. "You got yourself into this mess, you can get yourself out of it."


	57. Permitted

LVII. Permitted

"Tell me, Pansy darling, when did I ever give you permission to do that?"

She bit her lip and stared at the floor, not wanting to look him in the eye. How could she face him when he acted like this?

"Pansy, I'm waiting for an answer," Draco sighed. "When did I ever give you permission to do that?"

"You didn't," she muttered at last. "But I didn't _do_ anything! I…"

"You may not have done anything, but you certainly considered it," Draco drawled. "You seem to have forgotten something very important. You're mine, do you understand?"

Suddenly she realised that he was right, as always. Why should she so much as look at anyone else when she had Draco? She looked up at him and smiled.


	58. Played

LVIII. Played

"Millie, dear, could you possibly give me a hand with this History of Magic essay?"

The mere sound of Blaise Zabini's voice was enough to put Millicent in a very bad mood.

"No, Zabini, I won't," she said through gritted teeth.

Blaise pouted, which made him look even more like a girl than Millicent had thought possible.

"What if I pay you?" he whined.

Millicent glared at him, totally exasperated by his audacity.

"You may be able to play everyone else in this bloody school, Zabini, but you're never going to fool me," she growled. "Now sod off and go find some poor Ravenclaw to blackmail into doing your work for you."


	59. Prayed

LIX. Prayed

Tracey does not normally pray. It is such a muggle thing to do, after all. Her mother prays, of course; she is deeply religious, forcing herself to confess her sins to a priest each week among other things, and always, always praying. But Tracey's mother is a muggle, and prayer is such a muggle thing to do.

Wizards do not seem to have religion. Her father's family seem utterly unconcerned with it, at least. She recalls hearing Theodore and Draco discuss celebrating Samhain before, which makes her wonder whether some wizards still follow the old Celtic festivals, but maybe it's just the old purebloods. From Draco's attitude during that decision, Tracey guesses that it's not so much for religious reasons as tradition that they celebrate those things, and besides, it is only the old pureblood families like the Notts and the Malfoys that do.

Prayer may be a muggle thing, but when she hears of the impending war Tracey sinks down on her knees and prays for the first time in her life, not caring who sees her do it.


	60. Preserved

LX. Preserved

"Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could come up with a charm that preserved our beauty?" Pansy said with a sigh.

Daphne frowned at her. "There are already spells that do that."

"No, Daphne, I mean forever." Pansy suddenly looked very sad. "If I could be eternally beautiful then maybe Draco would always love me."

"Forget about him," Daphne said. "I love you anyway." She smiled, but Pansy did not smile back.


	61. Pretended

LXI. Pretended

Her life was supposed to be perfect now, but whichever way Andromeda looked at things, she knew for a fact that it wasn't. Even though Ted's parents helped out, they barely ever had enough money to live on. Ted said that everything was fine, that Andromeda was just being melodramatic – but then again Ted hadn't been born and raised in one of the richest families in wizarding Britain.

Her life ought to have been perfect now that she had Ted, but sometimes Andromeda couldn't help but wonder whether he had been worth leaving everything she had ever known. It wasn't as though she missed the political intrigues of pureblood society, all sugar coated gossip and malicious smiles, but she still couldn't help but close her eyes sometimes and pretend that she was back at home with her sisters, and Cissy was laughing and Bella was smiling. That was when Andromeda truly realised that she could never go back there; Cissy never laughed aloud, thinking it uncivilised, and Bella only ever laughed when it was at someone else's expense.

Her life with Ted may not have been so perfect as she had imagined it would be, but Andromeda knew that she would never honestly wish to return to those she'd left behind. It was better to remember her sisters as she wanted them to be rather than as how they actually were.


	62. Prevented

LXII. Prevented

"Bellatrix, you are a married woman," Druella Black said, the slightly icy look in her eye as she stared at her daughter the only sign that she was at all displeased with the current situation. "Your place is with your husband, not with this… this _Dark Lord _or whatever he styles himself."

Bellatrix smiled at her mother, her eyes gleaming as she twirled her wand between her fingers.

"Rodolphus knows all about it, mother. You'll be delighted to know that he has done nothing to prevent me, and in fact highly approves of my involvement."

Druella appeared to be almost scowling now, which was a sign that she was very, very angry.

"Your place is to bear heirs, not to follow this lunatic."

"I hardly see how _you_ would be able to prevent me doing what I want, mother," Bellatrix snarled, all pretence of civility forgotten.

Druella simply sighed, knowing that the battle was lost. Bellatrix had always been about as easy to control as fire.


	63. Promised

LXIII. Promised

The house felt unnaturally empty without them there. Narcissa didn't want to admit it, but the silence really did scare her. She was supposed to be complaining to her sisters about the amount of noise they were making: instead there was no noise at all.

Narcissa could hear the scratching of her quill on the parchment and the ticking of the clock down the hallway, insignificant noises that she never would have even noticed before but which now seemed deafening. She was supposed to be hissing at Bellatrix to stop shrieking with laughter over nothing, or wondering exactly why Andromeda was sobbing this time, not listening to the silence.

Narcissa Black was not an only child. She was not used to having peace and being on her own in the quiet, and she'd never thought that she'd have to get used to it. Bellatrix and Andromeda had, after all, promised that they would never leave her alone – sometimes seriously, sometimes half in jest when she felt like killing them because of their loudness.

Now Bellatrix was a married woman, entirely caught up with maintaining her place in society, and Andromeda was a traitor of whom Narcissa wasn't even supposed to be thinking, entirely beyond redemption and gone forever. They had promised never to leave her, but as she listened to the scratching of her quill on parchment and the ticking of the clock down the hallways, Narcissa finally realised that both of her sisters were liars.


	64. Protect

LXIV. Protect

Narcissa's normally flawless skin was red and blotchy, her eyes pink from crying. Bellatrix thought she looked a frightful state, and it was even more disturbing because this was precious princess Cissy, whom she had never before seen with so much as a hair out of place.

"Bella," Narcissa whispered, her normally sweet voice turned dark and hoarse by grief. "You have to help me protect him."

"I fail to see why it should be my concern that your son is so weak," Bellatrix sneered. "He is no Black; he evidently takes after his father."

She had been expecting Narcissa to get angry and hiss at her about how cruel she was, so the look of absolute despair that appeared in her sister's eyes was more than a little disconcerting.

"Please, Bella," Narcissa said so softly that Bellatrix almost didn't hear her. "Please."

Bellatrix smiled. It was oh so satisfying to see precious princess Cissy begging.

"Alright, Narcissa, I'll help you – but for your sake, not for his."


	65. Provided

LXV. Provided

Bellatrix does not know how long she has been there: days and nights have blended into an endless twilight. She does not mind though; it is through her own choice that she is here. Better to wait in the darkness knowing that she had done something for her Lord than to be living a lie like that traitor Malfoy.

Time has lost all meaning, but Bellatrix doesn't care. She listens to the shrieking of those around her and remembers the screams of those pitiful Aurors. She feels sorry for them in a way – sorry that they were blinded by the mudbloods, sorry that they were foolish enough to meet their demise trying to protect a world that hated them. There is no place in that world for purebloods right now, which is why Bellatrix is glad that she is in Azkaban, sitting in the shadows and waiting.

Bellatrix is faithful, not like the others, and she is willing to wait forever. It does not matter that time has lost all meaning now; one day the Dark Lord will rise again and he will reward her for her faith. She knows that one day she will be free and the world will be hers. Whatever she wishes for, the Dark Lord will provide.


	66. Punished

LXVI. Punished

Tom Riddle was smiling. They had shut him up in his room for the rest of the day as a sort of punishment, but they couldn't do anything else; they couldn't prove that he had even done it. It was Billy Stubbs' word against his, and how could poor little Tom have ever managed to reach up to the rafters to string that rabbit from the ceiling?

He had done it, of course, but that wasn't the point. Seeing that horrible bully Stubbs wail over the loss of first his pet and then his supper had been more than worth having to stay in his room for the rest of the day so far as Tom was concerned. It wasn't even really a punishment; they had just decided to keep them both away from the other children until they figured out what had actually happened. Tom thought it was a reward rather than a punishment, as he was away from the other children for a while, and bullies like Stubbs would never come near him again after this.

Tom felt his smile grow. Yes, the bullies would leave him alone and those foolish adults who ran the place would never be able to punish him for what he had done. They would never even realise it was him. He thought of the rabbits' limp, white body hanging from the rope and started to laugh. Maybe one day, if he were lucky, it would be Billy Stubbs hanging from the end of a rope rather than just his rabbit.


	67. Questioned

LXVII. Questioned

Theodore did not like Muggle Studies class. He had not wanted to take it when Dumbledore was headmaster, and he failed to see why he should have to take it now. Alecto Carrow's diatribe on the uncleanness of muggles and the way some of their children steal magic was something he had known for years – it was one of his father's favourite subjects to rant about when he'd had too much to drink.

"Muggles are not human!" She screeched this across the room, as she always did when she was trying to get that particular point across. "They are disgusting animals who sometimes, unfortunately, trick witches and wizards into breeding with them. Their filthy blood is more dangerous than amortentia."

She had been showing them pictures of muggles all year. Muggles were werewolf like, animalistic and deformed. Their knuckles scraped the ground and their spines were hunched. Their eyes were blank, displaying a total lack of intelligence.

Alecto Carrow had never shown them an actual photograph of a muggle. She said it was because muggles, like vampires, could not be photographed, but Theodore knew that was a lie. He could remember Tracey showing him a photo of her family – herself, her Hufflepuff brothers, her wizard father and her muggle mother, and all of them were there and smiling and obviously human. He never would have guessed that Tracey's mother was a muggle had he not already known.

He decided that he wasn't going to listen to another word that Alecto Carrow had to say. Instead he took out his Arithmancy book and began to do some actual work – luckily she didn't see him, and if she did then she just didn't care. He was a pureblood after all, she thought, therefore he must already have known the truth.

Theodore Nott was seventeen years old when he started to question everything he had ever been taught.


	68. Regretted

LXVIII. Regretted

"Do you ever regret having been sorted into Slytherin?"

That kind of question was so typical of Tracey Davis that Millicent wasn't even surprised to hear it.

"Why should I?" Millicent asked, shrugging.

"Well because it's the house of the purebloods," Tracey replied. "I think I would have had rather an easier time of things had I been sorted somewhere else: Ravenclaw, perhaps."

"Probably would have been just as bad somewhere else," Millicent muttered. "People always find reasons to be horrible, so I wouldn't waste my time thinking about stuff like that. We know we're better than them anyway."


	69. Refused

LXIX. Refused

Sirius was dead. Well, Sirius wasn't literally dead, but as far as Regulus was concerned he may as well have been. His brother was a Gryffindor, brash and loud and daring, playing pranks on everyone, even the prefects. And what was he? Just a snivelling, slimy Slytherin that Sirius wouldn't even acknowledge.

Regulus tried to pretend that it didn't hurt, but it did. He tried to pretend that he had done the best thing for everyone by becoming a Slytherin, but he knew that he hadn't. All he had wanted was to go to Hogwarts and have his brother back, but nothing had worked out how he had planned.

Sirius had only spoken to him once, three days into term, and told him that he was a coward, that he should have refused to let the Sorting Hat send him to Slytherin. Regulus had tried to explain that he would have if he'd been able to, but his brother wouldn't listen.

Regulus Black had never wanted to be a Slytherin, but the Sorting Hat had never given him any say in the matter – in that respect it was just as stubborn as his brother.


	70. Risked

LXX. Risked

Regulus knew that he used to be a coward. It was something he couldn't deny. He had gone to Slytherin because he was a coward, afraid of what his parents might do to him; he had gained top marks in his OWLs and his NEWTs because he was afraid of what his father would say if he didn't; and he had joined the Dark Lord because he was too scared to risk his life by refusing to join, too scared to stand up for the things he actually believed it.

Regulus was ashamed; he knew he was nothing like his brother. Sirius was brave, a Gryffindor. Sirius would have turned down a personal invitation from the Dark Lord and faced death instead. Regulus hadn't wanted to die, that's why he had become a Death Eater, but he had soon realised that death would have been preferable to this.

That was why, when he had found out the Dark Lord's secret, he decided that he was going to do something about it. He may have signed his own death warrant, but he really didn't care. He was tired of being the one who always did what he was told simply to preserve himself. Sirius had risked everything; he always had. Sirius was no coward, not like Regulus. Regulus was no Gryffindor, but he was determined to show that he was not a coward either. He would prove himself even if he had to die to do so. He was willing to risk everything if it meant he would get his soul back.


	71. Healed

LXXI. Healed

Draco was safe now. Severus supposed that he should have at least been grateful for the fact that, as no permanent harm had been done to young Malfoy, he would not have Lucius breathing down his neck and threatening to curse him, but he couldn't bring himself to feel relieved. The night's events had dragged up memories, made him relive things he had tried to forget for a long, long time.

Severus regretted ever having created Sectumsempra now that he had seen it used on an ally's son. He tried to make himself ignore the fact that it was his own spell that had harmed Draco; he had been very young and very stupid when he made that curse, and every young, stupid wizard tried to invent spells at some point. Then he couldn't help but think that not everyone tried to invent dark curses as a teenager; Severus Snape was the only Slytherin malicious enough to do that, to invent curses and to scribble them, along with the words 'for enemies' in the margins of his Potions textbook. He was an idiot enough to do that then and he was paying the price for it now.

That spell had been meant for enemies – made, Severus recalled, with the intention of getting rid of James Potter once and for all when he found out that he had stolen his precious Lily from him. It had not been meant for use on his students, and certainly not for Draco, who had already been so pale when Severus had found them that he had thought the boy was dead. He wasn't dead though, just slowly breaking under the pressure of his mission. Draco was even more broken now that Potter had had his way.

What hurt Severus the most, thought it took him a long time to finally acknowledge it, was the fact that it was Lily's eyes that were glaring maliciously at Draco's prone body on the floor. Had it been James Potter's eyes then Severus would not have been surprised, but Harry had his mother's eyes, and all Severus could think of now was the fact that he had failed to protect Lily's son from the darkness that magic could create. He had failed to protect Harry and Draco and many of his other students – how many of them would be foolish enough to follow him down the path that he himself had stupidly taken so many years ago?

Draco's wounds were healed now, but Severus' own would never be.


	72. Relaxed

LXXII. Relaxed

"I do not understand this!" Tracey shrieked, scattering her parchments all over the floor then lying her head down on the table in frustration.

"Here, have a sugar quill," Blaise said. His nonchalant attitude proved to be exactly the opposite of what Tracey was in the mood to hear.

"Sugar quills? _Sugar quills_? We have our Charms OWL tomorrow and all you can think of are bloody _sugar quills_!" she snarled.

"I don't need to worry about Charms," Blaise replied with a smirk. "I'm charming enough already."

Tracey looked like she wanted to curse him, so Theodore spoke up, deciding to intervene before a full-scale duel broke out in the middle of the common room.

"I think what Zabini means is that he's already resigned himself to failure so he's not going to bother worrying," he said.

Blaise looked at Theodore, obviously sulking now. "You're so mean, Theo."

"He's right though," Tracey said, grinning now. "You know I think I'll have that sugar quill."

"Why do you suddenly look so happy?" Theodore asked.

"Well if an idiot like Blaise isn't worried, then why should I be?"

"Blaise isn't worried _because _he's an idiot."

Blaise glared at them. "I hope the pair of you come down with a sudden case of dragon pox and are so ill you fail your exam tomorrow. Good _night_."


	73. Relied

LXXIII. Relied

"You can't rely on me for everything, you know." Daphne shook her head in exasperation and took another sip of her drink. Astoria fixed her sister with her most pleading stare.

"Please, Daphne," she said. "I've only spoken to Draco a few times. You were in his year, you know him better than I do." She cast a wistful look at Draco Malfoy, who was standing by the buffet table, eating dainty pastries with the appetite of a blasé Krup. Cecilia Macmillan had cornered him there and he seemed mere seconds away from hexing the woman. Not that Astoria could blame him, of course.

"Go and talk to Draco before he causes a scene," Daphne hissed upon noticing the look on the young Malfoy's face. She roughly pushed her sister in the direction of the refreshments.

Astoria came up to Draco just as Cecilia Macmillan left. He looked more than a little relieved – a look that unfortunately disappeared when he caught sight of Astoria. This was not turning out how she had expected it.

"Oh, hello, Astoria," Draco said, the look on his face betraying the fact that he was not in the mood for any more small talk.

No, this certainly wasn't what Astoria had hoped for, but on the plus side he was actually talking to her: and at least this time he hadn't mistaken her for her sister.


	74. Returned

LXXIV. Returned

Draco was lounging in an armchair in the common room, staring up at the ceiling and ignoring everything Pansy was saying, when Marcus Flint stormed over to him, a thunderous expression on his face.

"Draco Malfoy, I hope you know you're a complete and utter ponce!" he growled.

Draco glared calmly back, not wanting to let the older boy know that he was actually rather intimidated.

"I hardly see what warrants such an appalling attitude, Flint."

"The fact that you're a bloody idiot, Malfoy. If you hadn't stolen that brat's rememberall, Potter wouldn't have been able to return it: and if Potter hadn't been able to return it, we might actually had had a chance of winning the Quidditch Cup this year!" Flint roared.

Draco tried not to flinch. "We are not going to lose. All you need to do is make sure we have a decent Seeker."

Evidently his hint that he would be a far superior Seeker to Higgs was totally lost on Flint.

"Sod off, you arrogant little brat," Flint snarled. "Now get out of my sight or a swear in Salazar's name that I'll curse you from one end of the castle to the other."

Draco quickly did as he was told; Flint may have had the brain of a troll (as evidenced by the fact that he dared suggest that Draco had done anything to endanger the team's chances of winning) but he had the strength of one too, and Draco was not in the mood to get hurt over something he hadn't even done.


	75. Rescued

LXXV. Rescued

Blaise knew he shouldn't have gone down to the Black Lake to watch the second task of the Triwizard Tournament. He should have told Daphne that he was feeling rather unwell and would sadly be unable to attend – he should have, but he didn't, and now he was lying awake at night, staring at the glass panels in the ceiling of the dormitory and wondering how long it would take for the lake to fall through and the icy cold waters to drown them all.

Drowning had always been Blaise's worst fear, ever since he realised that a number of the poisons his mother favoured killed their victims by making them drown in their own blood. She had never meant for him to know this, of course, but Blaise was observant and the hexes she placed on her books were often easily broken. Drowning by poison was something he had long dreaded, but drowning by water seemed no better at all. Either way it would be an agonising end.

Blaise was glad that he was not in Potter's place – not, of course, that he, as a Slytherin, would ever have been stupid enough to put his name in the Goblet of Fire in the first place. Still, had he by some freak accident been entered into the competition, he knew he would never have been able to do it. Had he been in Potter's place then Theodore would have drowned (and it would have been Theodore. It had to be; Theodore was the only one he really cared about. Everything and everyone else was truly, utterly meaningless.)

Blaise liked to think that had Theodore been in Potter's place, he would have been the one he had to rescue. He knew otherwise though; they could never take the thing that Theodore cared most about. There would not have been anything tied up at the bottom of the lake had Theodore been in Potter's place, as Theodore cared for nothing at all.


	76. Ruined

LXXVI. Ruined

"Have you seen the rubbish that they've printed in the Quibbler today?"

Theodore looked up from his work, glaring daggers at the person who had interrupted him. He came to the library to get away from the usual distractions in the Slytherin common room, and now some idiot had the gall to interrupt him even though he was in the library and therefore obviously working.

He was not at all surprised when he realised that Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle were the ones who'd come to disturb his peace.

"I didn't think you read the Quibbler," Theodore said, sneering. "If you honestly think there's anything in there that's worth reading, then being transfigured into a ferret did your brains even more damage than I thought."

Malfoy flushed and shoved the copy of the Quibbler into his hands. "I confiscated it off a first year; you know Professor Umbridge says we're not supposed to have them."

"What is in there?" Theodore asked, still not bothering to look at it. "An article about how Bulstrode is really half-veela?"

"This isn't a joke, Nott!" Malfoy shouted, earning them a glare from Madame Pince. "Just read this, ok?"

The words 'Harry Potter Speaks Out at Last: The Truth about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and the Night I Saw Him Return' were written in large, red letters across the cover. Theodore failed to see why this should worry him, but as he read on he felt the colour drain from his face. His father, along with Malfoy's, Crabbe's and Goyle's, had been named as a Death Eater, and now the reputation he had so careful built for himself lay in ruins at his feet, all through no fault of his own.

"Why did no one tell me sooner?" he snarled.

"Because we knew you wouldn't listen," Malfoy replied.

It was then that Theodore caught sight of none other than Harry Potter himself only metres away from them. Goyle cracked his knuckles threateningly. Malfoy raised an eyebrow, then admonished Goyle for such a muggle display of aggression.

"You're a pureblood, Gregory. Act like one."


	77. Scared

LXXVII. Scared

Bellatrix was laughing again. She was twirling around in circles, her wand above her head, shooting sparks into the sky. She was elated, euphoric: a feral grin on her face that made Barty think that she was a vampire who had just conquered its prey. In a way she was; they had found their prey and taken turns playing with it, but Bella was the one who had really managed to drain the last drops of magic and sanity from it. It was always Bella who dealt the final blow – not him or Rodolphus or Rabastan. Always Bella.

Barty felt exhausted, Rodolphus looked drained and even Rabastan looked tired. They, the three men, the ones who were supposed to be strong, looked like utter failures in comparison to Bella, who was dancing up and down the streets, laughing in her madness. Bellatrix may have been a woman, but she showed that most wizards were wrong; witches were anything but weak, especially ones like Bella.

Barty stopped, feeling his knees buckle under him. He had used too much strength; he couldn't go on. He didn't even know why they were running. The Longbottoms had been some of the Ministry's favourite pets, so they were bound to get caught soon; there was no escape, not this time, not now their Lord was gone. Those fools had refused to reveal anything, so in the end they had just decided to make them pay for the injustices they had made their own kind (their own, precious pureblood kind) suffer. Insanity was a fitting punishment, but Barty still felt weary. He had used far too much magic that night.

Rabastan and Rodolphus had carried on ahead, but Bella had danced back to him, her eyes still glinting with that same sadistic delight.

"We're going to Azkaban," he whispered, falling into Bellatrix's arms as she roughly hauled him to his feet.

"And isn't it wonderful?" she cried. "We alone were faithful. We alone tried to save our Lord. We alone left our mark even though our fight is supposedly over. Yes, they will catch us soon and we will go gladly – but don't you see the beauty in it, Bartemius? Don't you?"

He couldn't help but shiver from the tiredness that had overwhelmed him. He closed his eyes but he could still hear her laughing, still feel that feral, mad grin on her face.

"Do you feel scared now, Barty?" she whispered in his ear. "Are you afraid of Azkaban?"

Barty's face was white as milk and he was shivering and trying not to cry into the tangled, silken curtains of her hair, but he knew what answer to give. "No, Bella darling. Never, Bella darling. Why should I be afraid when what we have done is right?"


	78. Scolded

LXXVIII. Scolded

"Frankly, I don't know _what _you thought you were playing at!"

Madam Pomfrey's voice was getting on Draco's nerves. She hadn't stopped scolding him for the past twenty minutes, and he really, really didn't like it. Who was this woman to think that she could talk to him, a Malfoy, in such a tone?

He sneered at Daphne, who was sitting next to his bed, looking suitably ashamed. Quite right too: if it weren't for her then he wouldn't be in this mess. She had decided to test her new tanning charm on him, and being the lovely, helpful person that he was, he had of course agreed.

That was because he wasn't expecting said 'tanning charm' to go wrong and turn him a luminous shade of violet. Draco had remembered far too late that Daphne was failing Charms, and was only scraping a pass at all because Zabini had been helping her.

"If I ever hear of another student who's stupid enough to eat venomous tentacula for a bet, I shall make sure that the headmaster deals with them properly!"

Venemous tentacula? Suddenly Draco realised quite how terrible a colour he was, and Daphne's expression went from one of embarrassment to mirth.

He was never going to let Daphne practice her spell work on him again: never again in his life. He would rather face the Dark Lord than have to wander around with his skin turned purple.


	79. Served

LXXIX. Served

It was times like this that Lucius honestly wondered whether the power he gained from hanging around with Augustus Rookwood and Rodolphus Lestrange (both of whom were older students from bloodlines almost as influential as his own) was worth having to put up with the most irritating Bellatrix Black. The girl was sprawled out on Lestrange's lap, drinking what he could only assume was gin out of a china teacup and ranting about the rise to power of a man who had apparently styled himself as the next Dark Lord. Lucius privately thought it rather a cliché.

"He is the greatest wizard our kind has known since Slytherin himself," Bellatrix was shouting out, her speech made even more impassioned by the amount she had had to drink. "We will submit ourselves to the Dark Lord and become as powerful as he. Won't we Rodolphus? Augustus? Lucius?"

Rodolphus nodded fervently but Augustus just shrugged. Lucius couldn't help but sneer at the girl in indignation.

"It all sounds quite awful to me," Lucius yawned, pleased to have an opportunity to show the eldest Black just how dull she was being. "Why in Merlin's name would you want to be anyone's servant? Unless of course your family's bloodline isn't so pure as you make it out to be."

She growled at him with rage and flung the teacup in his direction. Luckily Lucius dodged out of the way just in time and the cup smashed on the wall just behind him, gin trickling down the stone and pooling on the floor.

"You'll see the Dark Lord's power in time, Malfoy you fool!" she shrieked.

"I'd be more inclined to believe you if it were actually you talking rather than all the gin you've imbibed, Bellatrix my dear," he drawled, getting to his feet.

Bellatrix jumped up and made the hex him, but Rodolphus grabbed her and pulled her back onto his lap before she could do anything.

"Bella, behave, please," Rodlphus growled and Bellatrix calmed down immediately.

"Get my teacup back, then," she whined. "I need another drink."

Rodolphus got up to charm her teacup back together and Lucius left the room, flashing a smug smirk at Bellatrix before he left. She truly was a fool if she thought he was going to join this Dark Lord on her word alone. He would have to see this man's power for himself; after all, Lucius Malfoy was no one's servant. 


	80. Shared

LXXX. Shared

"Stay away from Pansy!"

Blaise was rather unhappy with the way in which he had been awakened. He had been enjoying a rather pleasant little nap, and now Draco had, of course, seen fit to disturb him.

"What are you talking about?" Blaise yawned, getting to his feet. He wasn't in the mood to face an angry Draco lying down.

"You," Draco growled, "will stay away from my Pansy! Is that clear?"

Blaise sighed melodramatically, allowing himself to smile because he knew it would annoy the boy further. "Are you jealous because she came running to me? Or are you angry because she got to me before you did?"

"Don't you dare suggest th…" Draco growled, but then stopped, speechless with annoyance.

"Really, Draco, you need to learn to share your toys," Blaise purred.

"She's not a toy! She's mine!"

Blaise sighed, flopping back down on the bed and deciding that he was going to resume his mid-afternoon nap, angry Draco in the room or not. "What are we going to do with you, Draco? You really are a spoilt little brat."


	81. Shivered

LXXXI. Shivered

It was cold and raining again. That wasn't unusual for a British summer, of course, but Tom wished that it would get a little bit warmer for once. It was the middle of July and Tom honestly wouldn't have been surprised if he had seen ice on the windows: winter, summer, it was all the same in the orphanage, always bitingly cold and damp and miserable.

Tom shivered and curled up more tightly into his blankets, grabbing hold of his pillow as though he thought hugging it could make the cold and the dampness go away. It had never been this bad during summertime before – or maybe it had and it only seemed worse because he had spent so long in the Slytherin quarters at Hogwarts. How ironic, that a dormitory down in the dungeons under a lake was not so cold and damp as his room here. Then again what else could he expect from muggles?

Tom wished for the thousandth time that he were anywhere else but there. Anywhere. Had he been living in a real home instead of that horrible place, he could at least have given his address to Mulciber and Avery, to Lestrange and Rosier, possibly even to the wonderfully antisocial Nott. He couldn't give them his address though, not when he was living in a filthy muggle establishment. Whatever would they think of him if they realised that the great Tom Riddle was locked up at the mercy of the muggles during his holidays? No, it wouldn't do to have them find out – better to go without contact for months than for them to realise that.

Tom suddenly realised that he wasn't shivering so much anymore. The rain had stopped: the storm had passed and the cold had abated slightly. Dawn was breaking. He had one less day until he was free from his prison again.


	82. Shocked

LXXXII. Shocked

Sirius Black has escaped from Azkaban.

When Theodore first saw this piece of news in the Daily Prophet, he honestly thought someone was playing an April fool's joke two and a half months too late. It wasn't until he showed the article to his father, who turned ashen with shock and spat out the firewhisky he was in the middle of drinking, that Theodore realised that perhaps the article in question wasn't a joke at all.

"Black's escaped from Azkaban?" Dionysus Nott growled, murder in his eyes and disbelief on every line of his face.

"According to this, yes" Theodore replied. "I thought you said it was impossible for anyone to escape from Azkaban?"

"It is; the dementors would eat anyone who tried," his father said. "But what's even more impossible is that a bloodtraitor like Black ended up in Azkaban in the first place. He was never in service to the Dark Lord. No, not that mudblood lover."

Theodore frowned. Sirius Black, a bloodtraitor? He couldn't imagine a Black being anything other than a most respectable pureblood. He thought that his father was probably wrong. It's more likely that Black was one of the inner circle of the Dark Lord's followers and that he only pretended to betray his family in order to get closer to those who opposed the Dark Lord's regime.

A Black would never be a bloodtraitor. Such a thing just wouldn't make any sense at all.


	83. Sighed

LXXXIII. Sighed

Severus Snape was an insolent boy – the most insolent, Horace was willing to wager, that he had ever met, and in his time at Hogwarts he had met quite a few. Horace was in the middle of reprimanding him for another incident that Albus had unfortunately had to bring to his attention, yet the boy just stood there inspecting his nails and looking totally impassive.

"You must understand, Snape, that I do not like being forced to talk to you in this manner."

Severus didn't give any indication that he had heard what his professor had said; he just continued to stand there in silence. Horace sighed. The boy really was incorrigible. To think that someone with such poor manners could be related to the Prince family: why, he wouldn't have believed it had the boy not borne such a strong resemblance to – and the name of his grandfather. A grandfather he had never met, by all accounts, and likely never would.

"No matter what James Potter and Sirius Black supposedly did to you, you cannot react by cursing them," Horace chastised him. After all, one couldn't have someone like Severus interfering with such well-deserved prizes of his as Black and Potter. If Severus did anything more to offend them then he might turn them against the whole of Slytherin and in so doing Horace would lose some of his brightest contacts. No, that wouldn't do at all.

He noticed Severus' fists clench momentarily, but then the anger was gone almost as soon as it had appeared. He stared up at Horace but didn't say a thing. His black eyes were cold and dead, showing nothing. Finally Horace realised that Severus was far more like his polite, pureblood grandfather than one would have assumed; both had that icy temper that rarely showed itself, but when it did someone would get severely hurt.

"You may leave," Horace said curtly. Severus swept out of the room. Not a single word had left his mouth in all the time he had been there.

As soon as Severus shut the door behind him, Horace got a bottle of firewhisky out of his cupboard. He wished that Severus Snape had been from a better background, one where he would have learned how to smile and say 'please' and 'thank you' rather than glaring and growling like some wild beast. Maybe then he could have made use of the boy's talents, but unfortunately no matter how talented he was, Severus Snape was never going to be able to make something of himself with an attitude like that.

Horace took as swig of his drink and sighed. It had been a very long day.


	84. Snored

LXXXIV. Snored

Theodore had made up his mind that, were he ever exposed to the cruciatus curse, it would almost certainly take the form of Vincent Crabbe's snoring. Goyle snored almost as loudly as Crabbe, but Goyle he could put up with. Goyle was just loud. Crabbe's snores, however, sounded like a mixture between a strangled cat, Professor Vector's nails on a blackboard, and someone with the remnants of a nasty chest infection, all of which had been amplified with an expertly cast sonorous charm.

Theodore opened his curtains slightly and glared at Crabbe's sleeping form. He was nothing more than a very loud, very fatty lump of meat. Theodore wondered briefly how easy it would be to stick Crabbe's pillow over his face and hold it there until the boy stopped breathing – and subsequently stopped snoring as well. It would be easy enough, and no one would ever be able to tell that he'd been the one behind it; after all, he wouldn't have used a wand, and what self-respecting pureblood would resort to muggle methods of murder?

No, he wouldn't kill Crabbe, he decided. It wasn't that he couldn't, but rather that even if he did suffocate the boy, there was likely to be a lot of mess involved, and Theodore could not stand any kind of mess. Instead he picked up an Ancient Runes dictionary and made his way to the common room; perhaps there, away from Crabbe's snoring, Theodore would actually be able to sleep.


	85. Soothed

LXXXV. Soothed

So this was what it felt like to be a murderer, was it? He felt almost no different from before. Those fools were all wrong; there were three filthy muggles lying dead at his feet and he had severed his own soul to pieces, yet he had committed no crime. Had he committed a crime then he would have felt that his soul was missing, but everything seemed almost the same.

Not exactly the same, just almost. Better. The fury that had burned inside him had turned to ice; it was now under his control. His father… no, the hideous creature who had unfortunately left Tom his name was dead. Yes, the muggles were dead, just like they deserved, and Tom felt the that the burning fury inside him were soothed for the first time since before he could remember. No, not soothed. Better. It was fully under his control now; not even his own emotions could escape him.


	86. Sparked

XXXLVI. Sparked

Rodolphus had always been warned to stay away from Bellatrix Black. The eldest Black girl was by far the most uncouth girl his parents had ever met. She was mad, drinking gin from a teapot on Saturday afternoons before luncheon was even finished and wearing atrociously brightly coloured dresses. No self-respecting pureblood woman should ever be seen in red, but the girl thrived on the colour, which said it all, really.

Bellatrix Black was loud and uncivilised. She didn't understand the importance of silence and would laugh uproariously at nothing until tears streamed down her face with absolutely no regard for the fact that they were in polite company. She would interrupt her father as though her opinions actually meant something, and when nobody listened she would run into the garden and burn her poor mother's beautifully kept flowerbeds until someone paid her some attention.

Bellatrix Black was, in short, the worst woman one could ever possibly come across, and as such Rodolphus had always been warned to stay away from the girl – but something sparked inside of him as soon as he saw her, and he knew that he would do whatever it took to posses her. Taming fire was impossible, but nevertheless he wanted to try.


	87. Started

LXXXVII. Started

It's raining again. It's raining and cold and he's already covered from head to toe in mud, but there's no way Tom's going back inside. If he goes back in there he'll kill them. It's not as though they wouldn't deserve it, far from it; it's just that if he kills them someone will come and drag him off to an even worse prison than the one he's in now – a prison he'll never escape from. At least he'll be out of there by the time he's sixteen; Tom has decided that he's leaving the place then whether they'll allow him to or not.

The problem is that being sixteen seems a lifetime away, an impossibly long time when he has rain soaking through his clothes and a black eye forming where Stubbs had thought it would be amusing to hit him. His face flushes with anger just thinking about it: Bishop had held him down while Stubbs punched him, and now he has a black eye and mud all over him from struggling to get away from the older boys. The most infuriating part, though, is that he will be the one to get in trouble, not them. That's what has always happened before, and Tom has no reason to believe that this time will be any different – especially not now that he has left Stubbs covered in burns and Bishop with a broken arm.

Tom hadn't done anything, not really. He had just wanted them to go away, wanted them to be in a hundred times more pain than they were putting him through – and then he had heard ear-splitting shrieks and they had let him go. Tom had scurried off as quickly as he could, hiding up a tree when a couple of the women who ran that horrible prison of a place had come out to drag poor, pitiful Stubbs and Bishop back indoors.

It is cold and miserable and raining, but despite this Tom knows that he has to stay outside. If he goes inside he'll see all those horrible children staring at him in abject terror after what he's done to Bishop and Stubbs. That he doesn't mind, it's easier if they fear him, but he knows that when he goes inside he will kill them, and one he starts killing there will be no one left.


	88. Stopped

LXXXVIII. Stopped

Of all the things that had happened that year, Vincent Crabbe's transformation from Draco Malfoy's silent, brainless lackey to Lord Voldemort vicious, vindictive, sadistic lackey was one of the most unpleasant. In Theodore's opinion it was bad enough just to have to be around the boy, but to hear him talk about torturing first years with a gleam in his eye as he spoke was enough to turn Theodore's stomach.

"Stop it, Crabbe," he growled at last when Crabbe's explanations of the horrific details of the effects of the cruciatus became to much for him to stop. "Just stop it."

Crabbe looked at him dully, a self-satisfied smirk on his face that rivalled even how Draco's had been a year ago.

"What, too much for your delicate, girly stomach?" Crabbe taunted.

"Stop it right now or I will curse you so badly you'll never speak again," Theodore hissed.

"Don't think I don't know a traitor when I see one, Nott," Crabbe growled. "If you've got such a problem with my stories then why don't you cruciate me yourself? That'd stop me talking."

"Not all of us are so weak that we have to resort to the Dark Arts to get people to do what they're told," Theodore replied. Crabbe immediately stopped, the colour draining out of his face; even he knew that Theodore Nott never made empty threats.


	89. Was Strengthened

LXXXIX. Was Strengthened

Bellatrix's eyes were blazing again and Narcissa didn't like it. She had returned home for the holidays only to be met at the front door of the house by her sister, who had immediately grabbed her arm and dragged her into the parlour for a 'talk'. When Bellatrix wanted a 'talk' with someone it was never good news, and the burning gaze she was shooting Narcissa did nothing to improve her thoughts.

"You have to join him," Bellatrix breathed out at last.

"Who?"

"The Dark Lord!" Bellatrix cried out. It was as though her sister's failure to recognise this was a personal affront. "He is the greatest wizard our kind has seen since Merlin himself. You'll gain unimaginable strength if you join him, power that you could never otherwise hope to attain."

Narcissa privately didn't believe this. She shot her sister an icy glare and left the room, hoping Bellatrix realised that her fanaticism for this 'Dark Lord' was frankly inappropriate. Power or not, Narcissa didn't care; she was engaged to Lucius Malfoy and so already had power beyond anything Bellatrix could ever dream of, and that was quite enough for her.


	90. Succeeded

XC. Succeeded

They had won. Draco couldn't quite believe this, but they had won – they had won even though the Dark Lord was gone. They had defected and escaped with their lives, something that his time in the Manor that year had convinced him would be impossible. The war was over.

The war was over, yet Draco sometimes almost found himself wishing that it wasn't. They may have escaped with their lives, but other than that they had nothing. At least before the war they had been given the respect befitting of a great pureblood line, but now… now there was nothing: nothing at all. They had lost the money, the influence, the position of power his family had held since time immemorial – they had nothing at all. His life lay in ruins around him and sometimes Draco found himself wondering whether it would have been better had the Dark Lord finished him off during the war. At least in death he wouldn't have fallen from grace.

The war was over, yet Draco Malfoy could not bring himself to be thankful.


	91. Supported

XCI. Supported

Avery and Mulciber stank of a putrid combination of firewhisky and elf-made wine. It wasn't the fact that they'd been drinking that turned Severus' stomach, but rather the fact that he could smell the alcohol on them from about ten feet away. He cast a discreet air-cleansing charm before sitting down with the two boys, who had called him over and were grinning stupidly.

"You know what, Sev?" Avery drawled. "We've been thinking."

Severus' first instinct was to make a snide remark along the lines of being astonished that Avery was capable of anything so complicated as thinking, especially in his current condition, but then he decided that there was no point in opening his mouth and saying anything.

"Yeah," Mulciber agreed with a laugh. "Thinking. Because there's going to be a war. ignore all the idiotic mudbloods who say there isn't, because there is, and we've been thinking about it."

"We've been thinking," Avery said, a rather feral grin on his face now, "And we've decided what side we're going to fight for. We're going to talk to Malfoy or Rookwood and they'll get us to join the Dark Lord; that way we'll be on the winning side and stand to gain something from this. So what do you say, you in on it?"

Severus frowned, not entirely sure whether this was the alcohol talking or whether Mulciber and Avery really were being so ridiculously rash.

"We don't even know if there's going to be a war yet," Severus said tersely.

"Course there is. We know it's already started; they just won't admit it," Avery snarled, suddenly furious. "You have to make up your mind now about who to support. If you delay too long then you'll lose everything regardless."

"I think I'm in rather a better state to decide my own future than you are, Avery," Severus snarled back, getting to his feet. Avery was wrong. He wasn't going to lose anything; there was never going to be a real war.


	92. Was Surprised

XCII. Was Surprised

Malfoy Manor was white and shining, ostentatious and garish, just like the peacocks that Abraxas Malfoy for some reason insisted on keeping in the garden. In short, it was exactly what Severus had expected it to be, and the people were as well – all purebloods wearing dress robes that cost more than Severus would earn in his life and self-satisfied sneers that only a millennium and a half of inbreeding could possibly produce. He had never felt so out of place in his life.

He hadn't wanted to come to the blasted ball in the first place, but Mulciber had been more than usually insistent that he make at least a brief appearance. It would not do to be passed over in high circles. In fact turning down a personal invitation to one of the Malfoys' get-togethers was tantamount to suicide; no one would ever be able to secure a decent position if they got on the wrong side of the Malfoys. The only thing that had surprised Severus was how he had possibly managed to get on the _right _side of Lucius Malfoy in the first place; he remembered that Malfoy had been a few years above him and school and was one of the most thoroughly smarmy imbeciles Severus had ever had the displeasure of meeting.

Said Malfoy was currently lounging in a chair by the fireplace with Avery on one side of him, Mulciber on the other and a tall, pale man with jet black hair opposite them. He was remarkable not only for his appearance (which was enough to tell Severus that he was obviously some kind of filthy half-breed; only a vampire's child would have such deathly pale skin and bloody-looking eyes, but the man had a wand, which meant he had to be a wizard), but also for the fact that he had an air of smugness around him that rivalled even Lucius'. The man was obviously a half-breed; otherwise why would Abraxas Malfoy be keeping far away from him, a look of abhorrence on his features whenever he had the misfortune to remember his presence?

The half-breed shot a piercing stare at Severus, who felt his blood run cold. Upon noticing where the man was looking, Lucius jumped to his feet as though he had been hexed and hurried over to where Severus had been loitering in the corner, a glass of firewhisky in his hand and a sour expression on his face.

"Our Lord requires your presence," Lucius said. Severus didn't know whether he was more surprised by the fact that the man was being civil to him or the fact that he had just referred to someone as 'Lord'. After all, Lucius Malfoy was no one's servant; he just expected others to continually kowtow to him.

"Now?" Severus asked, not showing his curiosity as to why a half-vampire would possibly want to talk to him. Then it struck him; that man was no half-breed. He was the Dark Lord whom Mulciber and Avery had been talking about in awed tones for the past few years.

"Of course not," Lucius snapped. He looked irritated, exasperated: far more like the Lucius Malfoy Severus was used to. "Such things can't be discussed here. You will attend our next meeting this Thursday afternoon. Mulciber will give you more details later."

He walked away as quickly as he could without looking conspicuous, leaving Severus standing there, his sour expression turned to one of plain confusion. What did this Dark Lord want with him? He knew he would find out soon enough; the tone in Lucius' voice had told him he didn't have a choice in the matter.


	93. Teased

XCIII. Teased

"Theo's got a girlfriend."

Theodore glowered at Blaise. "Zabini, forgive me if I'm wrong, but I was under the impression that this is a library, which means mindless nonsense such as yours should be kept far out of the way."

Blaise sat down, a delighted smirk on his face. "Stop being such a bore, Theo dear. And I'm not being nonsensical. You like her."

"I fail to understand your ramblings," Theodore said curtly.

Blaise's smirk widened. "Liar. I _know _you like her."

"I'd be able to give you an answer if I had even a faint idea of whom you were prattling on about."

"Tracey," Blaise said, looking appalled. "Isn't that much obvious."

Theodore's previously bored expression immediately became acidic. "Kindly stop your imbecilic teasing, Zabini. Why in Salazar's name would I ever be even remotely fond of a mudblood like Tracey Davis?"

The faint redness of Theodore's cheeks was enough to convince Blaise that he was telling anything but the truth.


	94. Tempted

XCIV. Tempted

Sometimes, when they came back from an evening's muggle hunting, he was the one she went to. Him, not Rodolphus. His brother would cast too many curses too quickly and end up completely drained. Not her though: dark magic made her euphoric, hysterical, insane, and he was always the one she turned to in her moments of madness.

At times, Rabastan wondered what he was doing. She was, after all, his brother's wife. A small part of his mind tried to dismiss these worries by saying that even if any children did result from these liaisons, such children would still be pureblooded and Lestranges, so what did it really matter?

A lager part of his brain told him that he was an utter fool, that his brother would kill him if he ever found out. But that was just it; the danger was part of the fun.

Every time he promised himself he wouldn't submit to her – and every time all she had to do was pierce his soul with her obsidian gaze and his resolve would crumble to dust.

Rabastan knew that he should stay away from Bellatrix (she was, after all, his brother's wife) but he couldn't. The temptation was just too great.


	95. Wasted

XCV. Wasted

When Tom Riddle had announced his intention to work in Borgin and Burke's on Knockturn Alley after leaving school, the majority of people had thought it a joke. Why would Tom of all people want to go and work for Borgin and Burke, slimy rats that they were? This was, after all, Tom Riddle, who could easily have walked into a relatively senior position at the Ministry straight from school with such outstanding NEWT results.

Tom hadn't been joking, however, and sixth months later there he was, working on Knockturn Alley. People had thought it scandalous that such a bright boy was working in a shop, and one that specialised in Dark artefacts at that. What in Merlin's name was Tom Riddle doing there? Why was he wasting his time on such menial tasks when all the power in the world could be his if he chose?

Tom knew they were wrong. They were short-sighed and foolish. Tom knew he wasn't wasting his time; after all, these people thought of only normal power, fallible and mortal, but Tom would soon posses power the likes of which those gossips could never even dream.


	96. Watched

XCVI. Watched

Malfoy was off on one of his rants again. Goyle and Parkinson seemed to be hanging adoringly off his every word, but the rest of the Slytherins were frankly getting bored. Well, Tracey was at least. She and Theodore were sitting in a corner of the common room, but unfortunately they were not far enough away from Malfoy that they couldn't hear him. Every single word that came out of his mouth stank of bigotry and ignorance, but then he said something so idiotic that she couldn't help but snort derisively.

"You're a bloody idiot, Malfoy," Tracey sneered. Malfoy spun around to face her, quickly going scarlet, his eyes flashing with indignation.

"You can talk, Davis."

"Well done for noticing that I can talk," Tracey drawled, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. After all, it wasn't civilised and Theodore would probably tell her off is she did. He was already looking at her in exasperation, obviously wishing that Malfoy's attention were elsewhere. "And do you really not realise how much of a prat you are?"

"And what gives you the right to say anything like that to be, you jumped up little mudblood?" Malfoy snarled. "I'll report you to Umbridge."

Tracey gave in to the urge to roll her eyes then, ignoring the filthy look that Theodore shot her as she did so. Frankly Malfoy deserved it, even if it was muggleish behaviour. "Umbridge is the reason you're sounding like a doxy's eating your brains, actually. You keep going on about how brilliant an example of a Slytherin she is."

"So? She is."

Malfoy seemed so completely sure of himself that Tracey couldn't help but laugh at his stupidity. He should really have checked his facts before making such pronouncements.

"Except for the fact that she never was a Slytherin. Dolores Umbridge was a Hufflepuff. She was in school with my grandfather."

Malfoy's only reply to that, as she expected, was to mumble something about filthy half-breeds and Hufflepuff duffers. Theodore was looking at her with the closest expression to shock she thought she'd ever see on his face. Tracey didn't care; it was about time that someone told Draco Malfoy what an imbecile he could be. And it was about time, too, that someone made Theodore realise that no matter how intently he watched people, it was impossible to know everything about everyone. Then again she couldn't blame him for being surprised; whoever would have guessed that Hufflepuff was capable of producing so vile a creature as Umbridge?


	97. Wavered

XCVII. Wavered

Andromeda bit her lip and stared at her feet. All she could think of was that she really oughtn't be biting her lip like that; her mother had drilled it into her for years that it was a terrible habit for a young pureblood lady such as herself. Then again why should she be listening to the ghost of her mother's voice in her head chastising her about her childish habits when she certainly wasn't following her family's advice about anything else?

"Come on, Meda," Ted sighed, reaching out and grabbing her by the wrist. "We have to get out of here now or your parents will catch us!"

It was a perfectly valid statement – if Andromeda's parents caught them then she would be disgraced and Ted would be… no, she wouldn't think about it. She knew she had to go quickly but her resolve was wavering. What was she thinking, running off with Ted like this? They were seventeen – _seventeen years old _and eloping. So what if there was a war looming on the horizon? In Ted's world (Ted's strange world of which, Andromeda realised with a start, she knew almost nothing) they would still be thought of as children. What was she thinking? What was she doing?

"_Come on_, Meda," Ted repeated, tugging at her wrist again. She stared at the panicked expression on her face and realised she had to go with him; if her family always struck horror into people's hearts like they had done to Ted at that moment, then it was a family she wanted no part of – even if it meant leaving her sisters behind for good. She wasn't leaving much. No, not really…

Andromeda looked on as Ted set off at a run, then followed him before her resolve could begin to waver again.


	98. Whipped

XCVIII. Whipped

"Zabini, is your handwriting actually that terrible, or did I really just read what I think I read?"

Blaise glowered at Theodore. "My handwriting is not terrible, you evil git."

"Don't insult me," Theodore sighed. "I'm doing you a favour by going through your list of Mermish words for Ancient Runes to make sure you haven't made any more stupid mistakes."

"Whatever," Blaise shrugged. "What are you whining about anyway?"

"I was just wondering why exactly you've translated 'whipped cream' in the middle of a list that seems to be all about the geographical features of the bottom of the Black Lake," Theodore drawled. "One could only assume you're going completely mad."

Blaise shrugged. "It sounded pretty."

"Now I know exactly why Professor Babbling thinks you're an idiot."


	99. Worried

XCIX. Worried

Daphne was twisting her hair round her finger. Round and round, round and round, tangling it into knots that would be impossible to brush out. She was going to regret it later, she knew, but it was an old habit and not one that would die quickly.

"You look worried, Greengrass."

Theodore Nott's drawling voice broke her out of her thoughts, making her jump. She flushed, annoyed that she had been caught off guard, then fixed him with a steely glare.

"What to you want, Nott?"

"Just wondering why you looked like someone had declared that they were sending you to Azkaban," Theodore replied. "Though of course you're obviously thinking that it's none of my business."

"Shut up," Daphne snapped. "Of course I'm worried. He's back. The Dark Lord is back!"

Theodore's impassive expression was almost enough to make her want to scream.

"So?"

"So?" she shrieked. "What do you mean, _so_?"

"I mean why should you care," Theodore replied. "Your family are purebloods, you're not bloodtraitors, and you're rather rich. So if I were you I wouldn't waste my time fretting. The Dark Lord will have far better things to focus on than the Greengrasses, I assure you."

Daphne didn't know whether she should feel offended or relieved, so in the end she decided to say nothing.

"You forget, Greengrass – my father is one of them, which means I have far more than you do to worry about."


	100. Whispered

C. Whispered

Daphne was obviously angry. It was quite an unpleasant sight, actually. Daphne was usually the one who smiled, who danced, who did everything she could to make the atmosphere pleasant – but right now she was having the opposite effect, and it was making Draco more than a little nervous.

"What do you think you're playing at?" she hissed eventually, the expression on her face somewhere between rage and despair.

"I have no idea what you mean," Draco replied curtly.

Daphne laughed derisively. "Oh, I think you do. You're engaged to my sister."

"What of it?" Draco asked, wondering where this was leading.

"Well, Malfoy," Daphne whispered, the venom in her voice made even more obvious by the calm with which she spoke, "you're playing with my sister's heart. And if you break Astoria's heart in the same way that you did to Pansy, I swear on the blood of my forefathers that you won't live to regret it."

The fury in her eyes made them so strongly resemble the colour of killing curse that Draco had no doubt that she was telling the truth.


	101. Winked

CI. Winked

Daphne had always adored balls. She loved the lively atmosphere, the bright, almost garish colours, the cheerful chatter and the music that entwined somewhere above them and made people want to dance and laugh and just generally enjoy themselves. She had always loved them, but for some reason she couldn't bring herself to enjoy the Yule Ball at all. It wasn't the fact that she had gone with her cousin – in fact that was a plus if anything, as he introduced her to all of her friends who were at least somewhat handsome while keeping the ones he knew would not be to her tastes as far away from her as possible. It wasn't the music, either, though Daphne preferred the singing of wood nymphs to the metallic clanging of enchanted, muggle instruments. It wasn't either of those things; no, it was entirely the fault of Blaise Zabini.

Blaise was lounging in a corner with Theodore Nott, smirking at every remotely attractive girl (and half of the boys as well, Daphne noticed) who happened to pass within his line of sight. Blaise winked at Ginny Weasley as she passed him and Daphne felt as though her stomach had dropped out of her feet, even when the Weasley girl shot him an acidic glare and clung even more tightly to the Longbottom brat's arm. Why wouldn't he look at _her_ like that? She was quite certain, in fact, that she was probably the only girl in the school whom he _hadn't _looked at in that way – except for possibly Eloise Midgen, but that did nothing to help Daphne's self-esteem.

As she watched, Blaise took another deep swig of the obviously spiked punch he was drinking then slumped against Theodore's shoulder, causing the boy to flinch away from him and Blaise to nearly fall out of his seat. She stifled a laugh. Then Blaise grabbed Theodore's arm and dragged him outside and she felt her blood run cold again. She knew they weren't going outside to do anything (because this was Theodore, and Theodore would sooner curse Blaise then play one of his silly little games) but it still annoyed her. Couldn't they at least have invited her to come outside with them?

She shook her head and turned her attention instead to the swirling figures in colourful dress robes that were twirling around the Great Hall. She smiled; no, she was not going to let that idiot Zabini ruin her night. She grabbed hold of her cousin's arm and dragged him off to dance.


	102. Worked

CII. Worked

Tom Riddle's plan had worked. The knowledge of that caused him to feel perhaps the closest thing he had ever felt to relief. Amusement he knew, and sadness, and anger, but never before in his life had he needed to feel relieved about anything. It was an odd sensation, as though someone had cast a highly diluted cheering charm on him, but he knew that it was relief; relief that the school wasn't going to be closed down, that he would have somewhere to escape to after the summer, that (though he didn't consciously acknowledge this) he wasn't going to be entombed in Azkaban before he could prove his greatness to the world.

He knew he should have been feeling something called 'guilt' at the situation, but frankly Tom thought that such a thing was non-existent, that is was something that had been made up by fools in the past as an excuse for their lack of determination. I confessed to the whole thing because I felt guilty that someone else had to take the blame, they would say. Tom was going to say no such thing; he was no fool, and it wasn't as though that filthy half-breed was losing anything by being expelled. A half-giant had no place learning wizards' magic anyway.

Yes, the half-breed was gone and no one would ever expect that poor, orphaned, perfect Tom Riddle had been the one who had nearly led to Hogwarts' closure. He was, after all, the most brilliant student the school had ever seen; why would he waste his talents on harming others? They thought like that but they were fools. He was not wasting his talents, just giving people what they deserved, making the world a better place. If the muggles had children in his world then one day they would find out about it and destroy it just like they had done to their own world. Tom Riddle had his fairytale now, and he wasn't about to let the muggles ruin this for him as well.


	103. Wrestled

CIII. Wrestled

Rabastan Lestrange was fifteen years old when his brother became a Death Eater. It was no surprise to anyone; his father had been one of the Dark Lord's first comrades in the fight against the mudbloods. What surprised Rabastan was that he, the useless second son, was expected to almost immediately follow in his brother's footsteps, and he wasn't sure whether that would be the right thing to do.

(But he wanted the power).

Rodolphus and his father would stumble in from their missions for the Dark Lord, covering the parlour is dust and blood and soil and earning an impossibly contemptuous glare from Mother. They would rave about how fantastic it was to know that they were doing something for the good of the whole world, but still Rabastan wasn't certain that taking the Dark Mark was right.

(But he craved the power).

Rodolphus had always mocked him, and Rabastan was used to it even though he despised it. Rodolphus was, after all, the older brother, the one bound to marry and carry on the line. He knew he had to tolerate his brother's jibes; his brother was necessary, the heir to their line, and he was not. Sometimes he wanted to kill his brother, thought that Rodolphus would be much more tolerable when he could never speak again – sometimes he thought that and he knew he couldn't do anything, couldn't even make up his mind if he wanted to linger for longer in his brother's shadow.

(But he needed the power).

In the end Rabastan knew that he had to follow in his brother's footsteps. If he didn't then those around him would view him with even more contempt, those very people who were supposed to support him. He was not weak; he would prove them wrong. He bowed to the Dark Lord for the first time and did not even scream with the pain. When Rabastan Lestrange took the Dark Mark he regretted nothing.

(And he had the power).


	104. Yawned

CIV. Yawned

"I hate women. I hate them!" Draco had lost his temper completely and was strutting round the dormitory in a rage. His teeth were bared and Blaise was finally able to see exactly why Theodore was so fond of comparing the pale boy to an albino ferret, the transfiguration episode in fourth year notwithstanding.

"Of course you do, Draco," Blaise said, rolling his eyes and not even bothering to stifle a yawn.

"What was that, Zabini?" Draco snapped.

"Well, to be honest I don't think you're in any position to claim to hate women," Blaise stated. "I mean the only woman you've is Pansy. And your mother, I guess, but in the context of your rant that doesn't count."

Draco opened his mouth, obviously about to say something along the lines of 'and you know better, do you?' but promptly shut it again. Even Draco wasn't blind enough to think that he knew more about women than Blaise.

Draco finally shut up. Blaise stared up at the ceiling and grinned.


	105. Yelled

CV. Yelled

Lucius had woken her up in the middle of the night again. He was thrashing about in his sleep and screaming, pleading with someone to have mercy. The sight was more than a little disturbing; her husband was not the type to beg for anything from anyone.

Narcissa always wanted to wake him up when he got like that, but to do so would have made the situation far worse. To wake him up would have been for him to lose face, and Narcissa couldn't do that to her husband. On the rare occasions that he woke up in the middle of the night and found her already awake, she claimed that it was really Draco's crying that had woken her; after all, what mother could help but be disturbed by the screaming of her nearly two-year-old son?

Lucius remained oblivious. He had no idea how worried Narcissa was, but it was best that she let it be, that she waited for his dreams to stop. Lucius Malfoy still had nightmares sometimes, even so long after his Lord's demise, but Narcissa knew that he was never going to admit it – and it was best for both of them if she never knew what went on in those dreams.


	106. Finished

CVI. Finished

It was finished, over, done. He had completed the task he had been sent to do, yet never before had Severus Snape felt so ill at ease with himself. Even after spending a good three hours in the shower, not even realising as the water went from scolding hot to freezing cold, he felt as though he had done something gravely wrong, as though he would never be clean again. His soul never _would _be clean again, he knew that much at least, but there was nothing he could do about that now.

"You've spent more than enough time wallowing in self-pity. I suggest you stop before you drown yourself, although at least I know you're not going to do that in a literal sense any more." The cold, curt voice of Lucius Malfoy was the first thing Severus heard upon stepping out of the shower and into the guest rooms he had been allocated, and it was probably the last thing he wanted to hear at that moment.

"You came to check I'm still sane, I assume?" Severus hissed, not wanting Malfoy to be there but unable to be anymore curt; the man was, after all, giving him a place to stay for the time being.

Malfoy simply smiled. "Now why ever would you have lost your sanity, Snape? It's not something that's as easily misplaced as all that, no matter what my dear sister-in-law would have you think." He wrinkled his nose in an expression of distaste the reminded Severus rather of a ferret: a shockingly white albino ferret whose blood-spattered robes had evidently already been sent to the house elves, just like Severus' own.

"Would you kindly leave me alone, Lucius?" Severus asked, his patience worn entirely away. "If you don't mind, I would rather like to get some sleep."

Malfoy just laughed, showing no sign of moving.

"It gets easier each time, Snape." He was smirking when he said it and there was no hint in his voice that he was talking about such a thing as murder. "You just happened to have a rather difficult beginning – getting rid of one's own father is ever such a hard thing to do."

Severus knew for a fact that Lucius Malfoy had had no problems whatsoever with disposing of his own father, but again he held his tongue. If he mentioned that then it might be hours before Malfoy left him alone to sleep.

"Alright, Severus, I'll leave you to wallow in self-pity," Malfoy said with a sigh. "It's a ridiculous reaction, you know; all you've done is cleanse the world of another one of those filthy animals."

"Lucius," Severus snarled, his temper unleashing itself before he could even comprehend what was happening, "get out."

Malfoy cast him and icy glare and exited the room, leaving Severus staring out into space, totally unaware of how he was supposed to be reacting. All he knew was that he wanted to sleep.

It was finished, over, done. He had completed the task he had been sent to do, and his father lay dead at his hand. What disappointed Severus the most was that the joy and release he had been expecting were not there at all.


	107. Chose

CVII. Chose

Draco was curled up on the sofa next to the fireplace, sipping at his tea and trying his best not to drop the cup on the floor. It was proving to be quite a task, as his hands wouldn't stop shaking. He didn't think he had been totally calm for over a year. Curse those blasted mudbloods for causing the war.

"I don't see what you've got to be looking so sullen about, Malfoy."

Draco supposed he shouldn't have been so surprised to see Theodore there; he didn't think he'd ever seen the boy sleep peacefully through a whole night. Theodore sat himself down in an armchair across from Draco, his feet on the table and an Arithmancy textbook cradled in his lap. It seemed to Draco that Theodore was the only one left who was still truly studying; it wouldn't have surprised Draco to find that Theodore was utterly unaware that they were at war at all.

"I'm not sullen," Draco said, moving to take another sip of his tea. His hand shook violently and the cup shattered to smithereens on the floor. He cussed under his breath but made no move to fix it; let the house elves clear the mess up later, that's what they were there for.

Theodore had disappeared the remnants of the tea and the teacup before Draco's thought about house elves was even finished.

"You know I hate all forms of mess, Draco," Theodore said tersely, looking disgusted. For a moment Theodore almost reminded Draco of his father – the insane Dionysus Nott, who drank improbable amounts of firewhisky and had no problem in wringing a man's neck, but who cringed in disgust as soon as a single drop of blood got on his robes.

"I'm not sullen," Draco protested again, ignoring Theodore's last comment and wishing he had another pot of tea and another teacup. Why did things always have to break so easily?

"You, Draco Malfoy, are as much of a sullen little brat as they come." Theodore's tone of voice was as flat as ever, so Draco almost didn't realise what he'd said. When the meaning registered, however, he felt himself turn scarlet with indignation.

"How dare you!"

"Yes, I dare" Theodore replied curtly. "And frankly you're enough of an imbecile to merit every single insult that's thrown your way from now until the day you die."

"Sleep deprivation has obviously driven you completely insane, Nott."

"No," Theodore said. "I'm telling the truth and you just don't like it. If it weren't for idiots like you who think that following the Dark Lord is compulsory, then the rest of us might actually have had a choice."

"You think I had a choice?" Draco cried. "If I hadn't joined they would have killed me."

"You could never have followed Grindelwald," Theodore sighed. "He was wonderfully utilitarian, you know. His policies were all about doing the greatest good for the greatest number. But you? No, you could never do that. You gave in to your own cowardice."

"No, I just proved that I'm not a Gryffindor."

"Maybe it would have been better if you had been" Theodore snarled. "You're a fool and a coward, Draco Malfoy, and because of your actions the rest of us have to bear the Dark Lord's mark for life as well."

He yanked up the sleeve of his robe and thrust his arm in Draco's direction. There it was, the Dark Mark branded into Theodore's arm, just as hideous and warped as it seemed on Draco's own flesh – perhaps even more so. This was Theodore, who was concerned more with books and Machiavellian games than attaining actual power; it was simply too incongruous.

"I never knew you'd taken it," he whispered at last when what he was seeing finally sunk in.

"It wasn't by choice," Theodore spat, true anger on his face for the first time in all the years that Draco had known him. "Because of you, we never had a choice."

Draco stood up quickly, not even daring to look Theodore in the eye.

"I'm going to get more tea from the kitchens."

He hurried out of the room, but the images of the shattered teacup and Theodore's broken expression wouldn't leave his mind.


End file.
